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THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



THE 



SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



o*w*v 



MAR HOWI 

A •" 



What's done we partly may compute. 
But know not what's resisted. — Burn*. 



LONDON 

RICHARD B E N T L E \ 
NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 

1834. 



Y' 



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LONDON: 

PRINTED BY MANNING AND CO, 
LONDON-HOUSE YARD. 



t 



TO 



ALARIC A. WATTS, ESQ. 



THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, 



HIS SINCERE FRIEND, 



THE A U T H O R. 



PREFACE. 



The idea of this poem originated in a strong impres- 
sion of the immense value of the human soul, and of 
all the varied modes of its trials, according to its own 
infinitely varied modifications, as existing in different 
individuals. We see the awful mass of sorrow and 
of crime in the world, but we know only in part — in 
a very small degree, the fearful weight of solicitations 
and impulses of passion, and the vast constraint of 
circumstances, that are brought into play against 
suffering humanity. In the luminous words of my 
motto, 

' What's done we partly may compute, 
But know not what 's resisted.' 

Thus, without sufficient reflection, we are furnished 
with data on which to condemn our fellow-creatures, 



Vlll PREFACE. 

but without sufficient grounds for their palliation and 
commiseration. It is necessary for the acquisition 
of that charity, which is the soul of Christianity, for 
us to descend into the depths of our own nature ; to 
put ourselves into many imaginary and untried situa- 
tions, that we may enable ourselves to form some 
tolerable notion how we might be affected by them ; 
how far we might be tempted — how far deceived — 
how far we might have occasion to lament the evil 
power of circumstances, to weep over our own weak- 
ness, and pray for the pardon of our crimes ; that, 
having raised up this vivid perception of what we 
might do, suffer and become, we may apply the rule 
to our fellows, and cease to be astonished in some 
degree, at the shapes of atrocity into which some of 
them are transformed ; and learn to bear with others 
as brethren, who have been tried tenfold beyond our 
own experience, or perhaps our strength. 

The evil agent whom I have employed for the 
working out of this moral process, in this poem, may 
either be regarded literally, as he is represented, 
according to the popular creed ; or simply, as a per- 
sonification of the principle of temptation, as each, 
individual reader's own bias of sentiment may lead 
him to prefer : for my own part, I regard him in the 
latter point of view. 

There may be some who may not approve of the 



I'REFACE. 

extent of crime which I have brought into action in 

the course of these dramas. They may deem the 

experiment especially dubious in a female writer. 

But let such reflect, that without high temptation 

there could be no high crime ; without high crime 

there could be no actual and adequate representation 

of human nature, as we know it to exist. And 

therefore to have flinched in this respect, would have 

been to defeat the whole object of my work. Let 

those reflect also, that it has not been my plan to 

render the description of crime alluring. In that 

case I should have deserved, not only all the blame 

the timid or the rigidly righteous could heap upon 

me, but also that of the philosophical observer of our 

nature ; for my view of it then would have been 

false and unjust. But I have painted the career of 

crime such as it is — one uniform downward tendency 

to degradation and ruinous misery; and have thereby 

held up to young and old, to strong and weak, to 

the high and the lowly of earth, the most important 

moral lesson that the light and darkness of this 

strange life can teach to tried, allured, rational yet 

corruptible, intellectual yet sense-involved beings 

the most important wc are capable of giving or 
receiving, 



The scenes, characters, and events in these dramas 
are, as in human life, exceedingly various, and ex- 
ceedingly diversified in their degrees of moral purity 
or turpitude ; but if they are allowed only to be such 
as fall really within the scope of our nature, they 
need no defence, for they must be full of lessons of 
wisdom and of stimulus to good. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

The Poor Scholar 1 

Thomas of Torres - - 27 

The Pirate 65 

The Old Man - - 117 

Raymond -----------153 

Philip of Maine - - - 225 

The Sorrow of Teresa ------- 339 



THE 



SEVEN TEMPTATIONS 



Cfje ^etien Ccmptatton0, 



In a gloomy chaotic region of universal space inha- 
bited by the Spirits of Evil, who, enraged at their 
expulsion from heaven, still endeavoured to revenge 
themselves upon the justice of God, by overturning 
or defacing the beauty of his moral creation in the 
spirit of man, sate three of the lower order of Spirits. 
Among them was, Achzib the liar, or the runner to 
and fro, — a restless, ambitious spirit, who, hating 
good, coveted distinction among the bad. 

For a long time they had sate in silence, each 
occupied by his own cogitations ; and there is no 
telling how much longer they might have remained 
so, had not the attention of the youngest been 
diverted by a gloomily magnificent procession, which 
was dimly seen passing in the distance. 

" Another of the favoured ones," said he, " is this 
day crowned !" 

"Ay," replied Achzib, "it is an easy thing for 
some to obtain distinction ! I have desired it for long ; 

b 2 



I have done services to merit it ; but my merits, like 
my desires, are fruitless." 

" Hast thou," inquired the eldest of the three, 
" proved the supremacy of evil? hast thou shewn 
that we are stronger than God?" 

" I have done much," said Achzib, "as ye all 
know!" 

" But, if thou have failed to do this," rejoined 
the other, " thou canst not have deserved the dis- 
tinction thou desirest !" 

" But that is soon done !" answered Achzib. 

" Not so soon!" interrupted the youngest spirit. 
" I have tried to prove it till I am weary ; and now 
I unreluctantly make the confession, that though 
we are mighty, God is mightier than we — his mercy 
is stronger than our hate, his integrity than our 
craft!" 

" I deny all this," said Achzib, " and I will prove 
it beyond controversy ! I will directly ascend to the 
earth ; and of the human spirits whom I will tempt, 
I will win the greater number, if not all of them, to 
their ruin !" 

" If thou do this," said the eldest spirit, " thou 
wilt indeed deserve to be crowned like him whose 
honours thou murmurest against : it is for less than 
this that he obtained them !" 



"You shall see," said Achzib exultingly, "what I 
will do. J will select seven human beings, and tempt 
them according to their several natures ; and if I 
prove not beyond dispute the superior power of evil, 
let me be called tenfold, Achzib the liar !" 

" Be it so !" replied the other two. 



Achzib was upon earth. He took up his abode 
in a famous city, and assuming the character of a 
philosopher, inquired out their most learned men. 
All told him of a poor scholar. Achzib saw him 
and conversed with him. He found him young, worn 
out with study, and as simple, unpractised and 
inexperienced in the ways of men as a child. This 
shall be my first essay, said Achzib; and accord- 
ingly, accumulating learned treatises and immea- 
surably long parchments of puzzling but unsound 
philosophy, he made his attempt. Whether Achzib 
or the Poor Scholar triumphed, shall be seen. 



4 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. 



PERSONS. 

THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

ACHZIB, THE PHILOSOPHER. 

THE MOTHER. 

LITTLE BOY. 



The Scholar's Room. — Evening. 

THE POOR SCHOLAR AND LITTLE BOY. 

Little Boy, reading. " These things I have spoken 
unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In 
the world ye shall have tribulation : but be of 
good cheer, I have overcome the world." Here 
endeth the 16th chapter of the Gospel according to 
St. John. 

Poor Scholar. Most precious words ! Now go 
your way ; 
The summer fields are green and bright ; 
Your tasks are done. — Why do you stay ? 
Christ give his peace to you ! Good night ! 



8 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

Boy, You look so pale, sir ! you are worse ; 
Let me remain, and be your nurse ! 
Sir, when my mother has been ill, 
I 've kept her chamber neat and still, 
And waited on her all the day ! 

Schol. Thank you ! but yet you must not stay. 
Still, still my boy, before we part 

Receive my blessing — 't is my last ! 
I feel Death's hand is on my heart, 

And my life's sun is sinking fast ; 
Yet mark me, child, I have no fear, — 

'T is thus the Christian meets his end : 
1 know my work is finished here, 

And God — thy God too — is my friend ! 
Thy joyful course has just began ; 

Life is in thee a fountain strong ; 
* Yet look upon a dying man, 

Receive his words and keep them long ! 
Fear God, all-wise, omnipotent, 

In him we live and have our being ; 
He hath all love, all blessing sent — 

Creator — Father — All-decreeing ! 
Fear him, and love, and praise, and trust : 

Yet have of man no slavish fear ; 
Remember kings, like thee, are dust, 

And at one judgment must appear. 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

But virtue, and its holy fruits, 

The poet's soul, the sage's sense, 
These are exalted attributes ; 

And these demand thy reverence. 
But, boy, remember this, e'en then 
Revere the gifts, but not the men ! 
Obey thy parents ; they are given 

To guide our inexperienced youth ; 
Types are they of the One in heaven, 

Chastising but in love and truth ! 
Keep thyself pure — sin doth deface 

The beauty of our spiritual life ; 
Do good to all men — live in peace 

And charity, abhorring strife ! 
The mental power which God has given, 

As I have taught thee, cultivate ; 
Thou canst not be too wise for heaven, 

If thou dost humbly consecrate 
Thy soul to God ! and ever take 

In his good book delight ; there lies 
The highest knowledge, which will make 

Thy soul unto salvation wise ! 
My little boy, thou canst not know 

How strives my spirit fervently, 
How my heart's fountains overflow 

With yearning tenderness for thee ! 



10 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

God keep and strengthen thee from sin ! 

God crown thy life with peace and joy, 
And give at last to enter in 
The city of his rest ! 

My boy 
Farewell — I have had joy in thee ; 
T go to higher joy — oh, follow me ! 
But now farewell ! 

Boy. Kind sir, good night ! 

I will return with morning light. [he goes out. 

[ The Poor Scholar sits for some time as in 
meditation, then rising and putting away 
all his boohs, except the Bible, he sits 
down again. 
Schol. Now, now I need them not, I 've done with 
them. 
I need not blind philosophy, nor dreams 
Of speculative men, entangling truth 
In cobweb sophistry, away with them — 
One word read by that child is worth them all ! 
— The business of my life is finished now 
With this day's work. I have dismissed the class 
For the last time — I am alone with death ! 
Tomorrow morn, they will inquire for me, 
And learn that I have solved the last, great problem. 
This pale, attenuate frame they may behold, 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. 1 1 

But that which loves, and hopes, and speculates, 

They will perceive no more. Mysterious being ! 

Life cannot comprehend thee, though thou shewest 

Thyself by all the functions of our life — 

'T is death — death only, which is the great teacher ! 

Awful instructor ! he doth enter in 

The golden rooms of state, and all perforce 

Teach there its proud, reluctant occupant ; 

He doth inform in miserable dens 

The locked-up soul of sordid ignorance 

With his sublimest knowledge ! he hath stolen 

Gently, not unawares, into the chamber 

Of the Poor Scholar, like a sober friend 

Who doth give time for ample preparation ! 

He hath dealt kindly with me, giving first 

Yearnings for unimaginable good, 

Which the world's pleasure could not satisfy ; 

And lofty aspiration, that lured on 

The ardent soul as the sun lures the eagle ; 

Next came a drooping of the outward frame, 

Paleness and feebleness, and wasted limbs, 

Which said, " prepare ! thy days are numbered!" 

And thus for months has this poor frame declined, 

Wasting and wasting ; yet the spirit intense 

Growing more clear, more hourly confident, 

As if its disenthralment had begun ! 



12 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

Oh, I should long to die ! 
To be among the stars, the glorious stars ; 
To have no bounds to knowledge ; to drink deep 
Of living fountains — to behold the wise, 
The good, the glorified ! to be with God, 
And Christ, who passed through death that I might 

live ! 
Oh I should long for death, but for one tie, 
One lingering tie that binds me to the earth ! 
My mother ! dearest, kindest, best of mothers ! 
What do I owe her not ? all that is great, 
All that is pure — all that I have enjoyed 
Of outward pleasure, or of spiritual life, 
I have derived from her ! has she not laboured 
Early and late for me ? first through the years 
Of sickly infancy — then by her toil 
Maintained the ambitious scholar — overpaid 
By what men said of him ! Oh thou un tired, 
True heart of love, for thee I hoped to live ; 
To pay thee back thy never-spent affection ; 
To fill my father's place, and make thine age 
As joyful as thou mad'st my passing youth ! 
Alas ! it may not be ! thou hast to weep — 
Thou hast to know that sickness of the heart 
Which bows it to the dust, when some unlooked-for, 
Some irremediable woe befals ! 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. 13 

Surely ere long thou wilt be at my side, 

For I did summon thee, and thy strong love 

Brooks not delay ! Alas, thou knowest not 

It was to die within thy holy arms 

That I have asked thy presence ! Oh ! come, come, 

Thou most beloved being, bless thy son, 

And take one comfort in his peaceful death ! 

[A slight knocking is heard at the door, 
and the Philosopher enters. 

Philos. Well, my young friend, I 've looked in to 
inquire 
After your health. I saw your class depart, 
And would have conference with you once again. 

Schol. To-night I must decline your friendship, sir. 
I am so weak I cannot talk with you 
On controversial points ever again. 
Besides, my faith brings such a holy joy, 
Such large reward of peace, why would you shake it ? 
Or is it now a time for doubts and fears, 
When my soul's energy should be concentred 
For one great trial ? See you not, e'en now, 
The spectre death is with me ? 

Philos. Cheer up, friend, 

It is the nature of all sickness thus 
To bring death near to the imagination, 
Even as a telescope doth shew the moon 



14 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

Just at our finger-ends without decreasing 

The actual distance. Come, be not so gloomy; — 

You have no business to be solitary; 

A cheerful friend will bring back cheerfulness. 

Have you perused the books I left with you ? 

Schol. I have, and like them not ! 

Philos. Indeed! indeed! 

Are they not full of lofty argument 
And burning eloquence ? For a strong soul, 
Baptized in the immortal wells of thought, 
They must be glorious food ! 

Schol. Pardon me, sir, 

They are too specious ; — they gloss over error 
With tinsel covering which is not like truth. 
Oh ! give them not to young and ardent minds, 
They will mislead, and baffle and confound : 
Besides, among the sages whom you boast of, 
With their proud heathen virtues, can ye find 
A purer, loftier, nobler character ; 
More innocent, and yet more filled with wisdom, 
Fuller of high devotion — more heroic 
Than the Lord Jesus — dignified yet humble ; 
Warring 'gainst sin, and yet for sinners dying? 

Philos. Well ; pass the men, what say you to the 
morals ? 

Schol. And where is the Utopian code of morals 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. 15 

Equal to that which a few words set forth 
Unto the Christian, " do ye so to others 
As ye would they should do unto yourselves." 
And where, among the fables of their poets, 
Which you pretend veil the divinest truths, 
Find you the penitent prodigal coming hack 
Unto his father's bosom ; thus to shew 
God's love, and our relationship to him ? 
Where do they teach us in our many needs 
To lift up our bowed, broken hearts to God, 
And call him " Father? " — Leave me as I am! 
I am not ignorant, though my learning lie 
In this small book — nor do I ask for more ! 

Philos. But have you read the parchments ? 

Schol. All of them. 

Philos. And what impression might they make 
upon you ? 
For knowing as I do your graceful mind, 
And your profound research beyond your years, 
I am solicitous of your approval. 

Schol. I cannot praise — I cannot say one word 
In commendation of your misspent labours. 
Oh, surely it was not a friendly part 
To hold these gorgeous baits before a soul 
Just tottering on eternity ! Delusion, 
'T is all delusion ! while my soul abhorred, 
My heart was wounded at the traitorous act t 



16 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

Philos. Come, come, my friend, this is mere decla- 
mation ; 
You have misunderstood both them and me ! 
Point out the errors — you shall find me ever 
Open unto conviction. 

Schol. See my state — 

A few short hours, and I must be with God ; 
And yet you ask me to evolve that long 
Entanglement of subtlest sophistry ! 
This is no friendly part : but I conjure you, 
Give not your soul to vain philosophy : 
The drooping Christian at the hour of death 
Needs other, mightier wisdom than it yields. 
Oh, though I am but young, and you are old, 
Grant me the privilege of a dying man, 
To counsel you in love ! 

Philos, Enough, enough ! 

I see that you are spent. I have too long 
Trespassed upon your time. But is there nought 
That I can serve you in ? Aspire you not 
To win esteem by study ? I will speak 
Unto the primest scholars throughout Europe 
In your behalf. All universities 
Will heap upon you honours at my asking. 

Schol. There was a time these things had been a 
snare : 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. 17 

But the near prospect of eternity 

Takes from the gauds of earth their tempting'st lure ; 

No, no — it was a poor unmeet ambition 

Which then was hot within me, and thank God, 

Affecteth me no more ! 

Philos. Nay, but my friend, 

For your dear mother's sake would you not leave 
A noble name emblazoned on your tomb ? 

Schol. Can such poor, empty honours compensate 
Unto a childless mother for her son ? 
You know her not, and me you know not either ! 

Philos. But think you, my young friend, learning 
is honoured 
By every honour paid to its disciples : 
Your tomb would be a shrine, to learning sacred. 

Schol. There is more comfort, sir, unto my soul 
To feel the smallest duty not neglected, 
And my day's work fulfilled, than if I knew 
This perishable dust would be interred 
In kingly marble, and my name set forth 
In pompous blazonry. 

Philos. Not to be great — 

You do mistake my drift — but greatly useful ; 
Surely you call not this unmeet ambition ! 

Schol. Sir, had the will of God ordained a wider, 
A nobler sphere of usefulness on earth, 

c 



18 THE POOR SCHOLAR* 

He would have given me strength, and health, and 

power 
For its accomplishment. I murmur not 
That little has been done, but rather bless Him 
Who has permitted me to do that little ; 
And die content in his sufficient mercy, 
Which has vouchsafed reward beyond my merit. 

Philos. Nay, I must serve you ! Let me but con- 
tribute 
Unto your body's ease. This wretched room, 
And its poor pallet — would you not desire 
A lighter, airier, more commodious chamber, 
Looking out to the hills ; and where the shine 
Of the great sun might enter — -where sweet odours, 
And almost spiritual beauty of fair flowers 
Might gratify the sense — and you might fall 
Gracefully into death ,~in downy ease ? 
Speak, and all this is yours ! 

Schol. Here will I die ! 

Here have I lived — here from my boyhood lived ; 
These naked walls are like familiar faces, 
And that poor pallet has so oft given rest 
To my o'erwearied limbs, there will I die ! 

Philos. But you do need physicians — here is gold, 
I know the scholar's fee is scant enough ! 
I will go hence, and send you an attendant. 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. 19 

Schol. I cannot take your gold, I want it not, 
My sickness is beyond the aid of man ; 
And soon, even now, I did expect my mother. 

Philos. [affecting sorrow. ~\ My dear young friend, 1 
have to ask your pardon ; 
The letter that I promised to deliver, 
I did forget — indeed I gave it not ! 

Schol. How have I trusted to a broken reed ! 
Oh mock me not with offers of your friendship, 
Say not that you would serve me ! 

Oh my mother — 
Poor, broken-hearted one, I shall not see thee ! 

\_He covers his face for a moment, then 
rises up with sudden energy. 
Whoe'er you are, and for what purpose come, 
I know not — you have troubled me too long — 
But something in my spirit, from the first, 
Told me that you were evil ; and my thought 
Has often inly uttered the rebuke, 
" Get thee behind me, Satan !" Leave me now — 
Leave me my lonely chamber to myself, 
And let me die in peace ! 

[The Philosopher goes out, abashed. 
The scholar falls back into his chair, 
exhausted ; after some time recovering, 
he faintly raises himself. 
i2 



20 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

'Tis night-fall now — and through the uncurtained 

window 
I see the stars ; there is no moon to night. 
Here then I light my lamp for the last time ; 
And ere that feeble flame has spent itself, 
A soul will have departed ! 

Let me now 
Close my account with life ; and to affection, 
And never-cancelled duty, give their rights : 

[He opens his Bible, and inscribes it. 
This I return to thee, my dearest mother, 
Thy gift at first, and now my last bequest ; 
And these poor earnings, dust upon the balance 
Compared with the great debt I owe to thee, 
Are also thine — would I had more to give ! 
There lie you, side by side. 

[He lays a small sum of money with the Bible. 
Thou blessed book, 
Full of redeeming knowledge, making wise 
Unto salvation, and the holy spring 
Of all divine philosophy — and thou poor dust, 
For which the soul of man is often sold ; 
Yet wast thou not by evil traffic won, 
Nor got by fraud, nor wrung from poverty — 
God blessed the labourer while he toiled for thee, 
And may'st thou bless the widow ! — lie thou there — 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. 21 

I shall not need you more. I am departing 
To the fruition of the hope of one, 
And where the other cannot get admittance ! 
And now a few words will explain the rest : — 

[_He writes a few words, which he encloses 
with them, and making all into a packet, 
seals them up. 

God comfort her poor heart, and heal its wounds, 
Which will bleed fresh when she shall break this seal. 

[Shortly after this is done, he becomes sud- 
denly paler — a convulsive spasm passes 
over him ; when he recovers, he slowly 
rises, and kneels upon his pallet-bed. 

Schol. Almighty God ! look down 
Upon thy feeble servant ! strengthen him ! 

Give him the victor's crown, 
And let not faith be dim ! 
Oh, how unworthy of thy grace, 

How poor, how needy, stained with sin ! 

How can I enter in 
Thy kingdom, and behold thy face ! 
Except thou hadst redeemed me, I had gone 

Without sustaining knowledge to the grave ! 
For this I bless thee, oh thou Gracious One, 

And thou wilt surely save ! 



22 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

I bless thee for the life which thou hast crowned 
With never-ending good ; 

For pleasures that were found 

Like wayside flowers in quiet solitude. 

I bless thee for the love that watched o'er me 

Through the weak years of infancy, 

That has been, like thine everlasting truth, 

The guide, the guardian-angel of my youth. 

Oh, Thou that didst the mother's heart bestow, 

Sustain it in its woe, 

For mourning give it joy, and praise for heaviness ! 

[He falls speechless upon the bed. 

His mother enters hurriedly. 

Mother. Alas, my son ! and am I come too late ? 
Oh, Christ ! can he be dead 1 

Schol. [looking up faintly, .] Mother, is 't thou ? 
It is ! it is ! who summoned thee, dear mother ? 

Mother. A little boy, the latest of thy class ; 
He left these walls at sunset, and came back 
With me e'en now. He told me of thy words, 
And of thy pallid cheek and trembling hand ; — 
Sorrowing for all, but sorrowing most because 
Thou saidst he would behold thy face no more ! 

Schol. My soul doth greatly magnify the Lord 
For his unmeasured mercies ! — and for this 
Great comfort, thy dear presence ! I am spent — 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. '2o 

The hand of death is on me ! Ere the sun 
Lightens the distant mountains, I shall be 
Among the blessed angels ! Even now 
I see as 't were heaven opened, and a troop 
Of beautiful spirits waiting my release ! 

Mother. My son ! my son ! and thou so young, so 
wise, 
So well-beloved, alas, must thou depart ! 
Oh, rest thy precious head within mine arms, 
My only one ! — Thou wast a son indeed ! 

Schol. Mother, farewell ! I hear the heavenly 
voices, 
They call ! — I cannot stay, farewell — farewell ! 



Choir of Spiritual Voices. 

No more sighing, 

No more dying, 
Come with us, thou pure and bright ! 

Time is done, 

Joy is won, 
Come to glory infinite ! 
Hark ! the angel- songs are pealing ! 
Heavenly mysteries are unsealing, 

Come and see, oh come and see ! 



24 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

Here the living waters pour, 

Drink and thou shalt thirst no more, 

Dweller in eternity ! 
No more toiling — no more sadness! 
Welcome to immortal gladness, 

Beauty and unending youth ! 
Thou that hast been deeply tried, 
And like gold been purified, 

Come to the eternal truth ! 
Pilgrim towards eternity, 
Tens of thousands wait for thee ! 

Come, come ! 



25 



Achzib was surprised at the ill success of his 
attempt upon the Poor Scholar. He was humiliated 
to feel how powerfully he had been rebuked by one 
comparatively a youth — one who was poor, and who 
had so little knowledge of men. It was before the 
authority of virtue he had shrunk, but he had never 
believed till that moment, that virtue possessed such 
authority ; and almost confounded, he walked forth 
from the door of the Poor Scholar into the fields that 
surrounded the city. 

Achzib had done unwisely in making too direct an 
attack. The integrity of principle may be under- 
mined, but is seldom taken by storm. 

When Achzib had duly pondered upon the cause 
of his failure, his desire was only redoubled to make 
a fresh attempt. "*I will neither choose a dying man, 
a scholar, nor one of inflexible virtue," said he, "and 
yet my triumph shall be signal and complete." He 



26 

thought over the baits for human souls — love — 
ambition — pleasure ; but all these he rejected. — 
" For," said he, "is not avarice more absorbingly, 
more hopelessly cruel than all these ? The lover may 
be fierce, ungovernable, extravagant ; still is the 
passion in itself amiable. The man of ambition may 
wade through blood to a kingdom ; yet even in his 
career, give evidence of good and great qualities. The 
votary of pleasure, though he sacrifice health, wealth, 
talents, and friends, yet has the moments when the 
soul, reacting upon itself, prays to be disenthralled. 
None are retrieveless ; none are utterly alien to good, 
save the victim of avarice ; for when did the soul, 
abandoned to this vice, feel misgivings ? when did it 
feel either pity or love ? or when did it do one good, 
thing, or repent of one evil thing? It will strip 
without remorse, the fatherless, the widow, nay even 
the very sanctuary of God ! Avarice is the Upas of 
the soul — no green thing flourishes below it, no bird 
of heaven flies over it; and the dew and the rain, and 
the virtues of the earth, become pestilential because 
of it ! It shall be the love of gold which shall be 
my next temptation." 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 



PERSONS. 

THOMAS OF TORRES. 

ACHZIB, A STRANGER. 

THE SECOND LORD OF TORRES. 

ISABEL, A WIDOW, AND OTHER SUBORDINATE 

CHARACTERS. 

Time occupied, one and twenty years. 



SCENE I. 

A green hill overlooking a broad valley, in the centre 
of which, among a few old trees, stands a noble 
mansion of grey stone ; a fine lake appears in the 
winding of the valley, and the hillsides are scattered 
with a few worthless old trees, the remnants of woods 
which have been felled. — Thomas of Torres comes 
forward, and throws himself on the grass. 

Thomas. That was my home — the noble hall of Torres ! 
Mine were those meadows — yon bright lake was mine, 
Where when a boy I fished, and swam, and hurled 
Smooth pebbles o'er its surface ; those green hills 



30 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

Were mine, and mine the woods that clothed them— 

This was my patrimony ! a fair spot, 

Than which this green and pleasant face of earth 

Can shew none fairer ! With this did descend 

An honourable name — the lord of Torres ! 

An unimpeachable and noble name, 

Without a blot on its escutcheon, 

Till it descended to a fool like me — 

A spendthrift fool, who is become a proverb ! 

My father was a good and quiet man — 
He wedded late in life ; and I was born 
The child of his old age ; my mother's face 
I knew not, saving in its gilded frame, 
Where, in the chamber of her loving husband, 
It hung before his bed. My father died 
When I was in my nonage. Marvellous pains, 
Reading of books, study, and exercise, 
Made me, they said, a perfect gentleman : 
Such was the lord of Torres three years since ! 

He rode, he ran, he hunted, and he hawked, 
And all exclaimed, " a gallant gentleman !" 
He had his gay companions— what of that ? 
They said that youth must have its revelries. 
He laughed, he sung, he danced, he drank his wine, 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 31 

And all declared, " a pleasant gentleman !" 

They came to him in need — his many friends — 

Money he had in plenty, it was theirs ! 

He paid their debts ; he gave them noble gifts ; 

He feasted them ; he said, " they are my friends, 

And what I have is their's !" and they exclaimed, 

" Oh, what a noble, generous gentleman !" 

He had his friends too, of another sort — 

Fair women that seduced him with their eyes, — 

For these he had his fetes ; his pleasant shews ; 

His banquetings in forest solitudes, 

Beneath the green boughs, like the sylvan gods : 

And these repaid him with sweet flatteries, 

And with bewitching smiles and honeyed words ! 

The lord of Torres did outgo his rents ; 

His many friends had ta'en his ready cash ; 

" What then !" said they, " thy lands are broad and 

rich, 
Get money on them !" AL, poor thoughtless fool, 
He listened to their counsels ! — Feasts and gifts, 
And needy friends, again have made him bare ! 
"Cut down thy woods!" said they. He cut them 

down ; 
And then his wants lay open to the day, 
And people said " this thriftless lord is poor !" 



32 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

This touched his pride, and he grew yet more lavish. 

" Come to my heart," said he, "my faithful friends ; 

We '11 drink and laugh, to shew we yet can spend ! " 

— " The woods are felled ; the money is all spent ; 

What now remains ? — The ]and 's as good as gone, 

The usurer doth take its yearly rent !" 

So spake the lord again unto his friends : 

" Sell house and all !" exclaimed the revellers. 

The young lord went to his uneasy bed 

A melancholy man. The portraits old 

Looked from their gilded frames as if they spoke 

Silent upbraidings — all seemed stern but one, 

That youthful mother, whose kind eye and smile 

Appeared to say, Return, my son, return ! 

The lord of Torres is a thoughtful man : 

His days are full of care, his nights of fear ; 

He heedeth not which way his feather sits ; 

He wears the velvet jerkin for the silk ; 

He hath forgot the roses in his shoes ; 

He drinks the red wine and forgets the pledge ; 

He hears the jest, and yet he laugheth not : 

Then said his friends " Our lord hath lost his wits, 

Let 's leave him ample space to look for them !" 

They rode away, and left his house to silence ; 

The empty rooms echoed the closing doors ; — 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 33 

The board was silent ! silent was the court, 

Save for the barking of the uneasy hounds. 

Soon spread those friends, the news of his distress ! 

And then again a crowd was at his doors : 

This was a jeweller, and must be paid ; 

This was a tailor — this had sold perfumes, 

This silks, and this confectionery and wine — 

They must — they must be paid — they would be paid ! 

" The lord of Torres is a ruined man !" 

So said the cunning lawyer ; — and they sold 

Horses and hounds and hawks, and then they said — 

The house itself must go ! The silent lord 

Rose up an angry man : " Fetch me my horse!" 

Said he ; for now a thought had crossed his mind 

Wherein lay hope. — Alas ! he had no horse — 

The lord of Torres walked a-foot that day ! 

" I '11 seek my friends!" said he, " my right good 

friends ; 
They '11 help me in my need, each one of them." 
He sought their doors — this saw him through the 

blind, 
And bade his valet say, he was abroad : 
This spoke him pleasantly, and gave him wine, 
And pledged him in the cup, his excellent friend ! 
But when he told the purport of his visit, 
He shook his head, and said he had no gold, 
D 



34 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

Even while he paid a thousand pieces down 

For a vain bauble ! From another's lips 

He heard the mocking words of " spendthrift," — 

" beggar." 
The lord of Torres turned upon his heel, 
And muttered curses while his heart was sad. 
" There 's yet another friend," said he, " beloved 
Beyond them all ; for while I held them churls, 
This was the chosen brother of my heart!" 
The lord of Torres stood beside his gate ; 
There was a shew as for a festival. 
" I come in a good hour !" said he to one 
Who stood hard by — " what means this merry shew?" 
" How ! know you not," said he, " this very morn 
The noble Count hath wedded the fair daughter 
Of Baron Vorm !" The young lord's cheek is white, 
His brain doth reel — he holds against the gate, 
And hides his face that none may see his tears ! 
He back returned unto his father's house, 
And entering in his chamber, barred the door, 
And passed a night of sleepless agony ! 

The lord of Torres was an altered man : 
A woe had shadowed o'er his countenance ; 
His speech was low, and tremulous, and sad ; 
He bore a wounded heart within his breast. 
Then came his aged steward with streaming eyes, 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 35 

And gave to him a little bag of gold ; 

" Take it," he said, " I won it in thy service, 

And in the service of thy noble father !" 

The lord of Torres took the old man's hand, 

And wept as weeps a child ; his heart was touched. 

" Take back thy gold," said he ; "I wasted mine, 

Yet will I not expend thy honest gains : — 

Friend, take it back — I will not touch thy gold !" 

The house was sold — the lands, the lakes were sold, 
And debts and charges swallowed up the price ; 
And now he is a landless, homeless man, — 
He is no lord, he hath no heritage ! 
Thomas of Torres, get thee from this place, 
What dost thou here ? — art like a cursed sprite 
Looking into the heaven that thou hast lost ? 
Ay, look and long — for yonder do they lie, 
Thy fair lands and thy broad ! Poor outcast wretch, 
Thou may'st not set thy foot within those fields ; 
Thou may'st not pull a sapling from the hills ; 
Thou may'st not enter yon fair mansion-house — 
Another man is called the lord of Torres ! 
Out with thee ! thou art but a thriftless hind ; 
They '11 drive thee hence if thou but set thine eyes 
Upon their fair possessions ! What art now 
Better than him who wins his bread by toil P 
Better titan that poor wretch who lives by alms P 
d 2 



3G THOMAS OF TORRES. 

Thou canst not dig ; to beg thou art ashamed : 

Oh, worse than they — thou, one-time, lord of Torres ! 

\A stranger advances, and pauses before Thomas. 

Stranger. Are you the lord of Torres ? 

Thos. I was he ! 

Strang. You are the man I seek ! 

Thos. What is 't you want ? 

I can bestow no favours, give no gifts — 
I have not even a stiver for myself! 

Strang. Nothing I ask ; I seek but to confer. 
Now listen to my words, my noble friend ! 
I knew a man whose case was like your own ; 
He stood upon the hills that overlooked 
The fair lands he had lost ; as you on yours. — 
He saw his treeless woods, his desolate mansion, 
Gone to a stranger's name — yet what did he ? 
Sit still and make a moan about the past, 
And call himself ill names and beat his breast ? 
No, no ! — he was another kind of man ! 
He made a vow to win his lost lands back ; 
To set a tree for every tree he felled ; 
To dwell in his ancestral home again ! 

Thos. And was his vow performed ? 
Strang. Indeed, it was ! 

Where he had counted one in his wild youth, 
In his old age he counted twenty fold ; 
And died within the room where he was born. 



THOMAS OF TORR] S. 37 

Thos. To win the faithless lady of his love 
Made he a vow ? 

Strang. That vow he did not make ; 

Because I know not if his heart had loved. 
But you may make that vow. 

Thos. She is a wife ! 

Strang. He that has wedded her is not immortal ; 
Suppose he die, can you then claim her hand, 
A homeless, landless man ? Beside, she then 
Would have increased wealth ? 

Thos. She was to me 

Dearer than gold or silver. I 'd have ta'en her, 
A serving wench, without a single doit, 
In my prosperity. 

Strang. And she loved too ? 

Thos. Methought she did. 

Strang. She did — nor would have wedded 

Another man might she have made her choice. 

Thos. Ha ! say you so? Could I believe it true, 
I 'd make the vow and keep it ! 

Strang. I swear to you 

She was compelled to wed against her will — 
And, but that it w r ere sin, she still would love you ! 

Thos. I '11 do as thou hast said ! give me thy hand ! 
Thou hast performed a friend's part, though a stranger ; 
Witness my vow — witness, thou ancient earth, 
And thou, more ancient heaven, oh, witness it ! 



38 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

All that was mine I will win back to me — 

All I have lost I will again possess — 

Silver or gold, or love more precious still ! 

All that gave joy and beauty to my life, 

Shall gladden and adorn it ere its close ! 

Hunger and thirst, and cold, and weariness 

Shall not oppose me ! — through the day I '11 toil, 

And through the night I will lay ceaseless schemes ! 

Here, in the face of my ancestral home, 

I make this solemn vow ! — So help me God ! 

Strang. You have done well. The oath is good — 
now keep it! 
But I must part from you — my road lies hence. 
Thos. My road lies any way. — I '11 go with you. 
Stran, [ going forward] The ground was good — 
and now the seed is sown 
Which will produce a harvest for my reaping ! 

[Thomas remains, looking into the valley for 
a few moments, and then folloivs him,. 



SCENE II. 

The interior of a miserable hut, cold ivood-ashes lie 
upon the hearth, and straiv, as for a bed, in one 
corner. — Enter Thomas of Torres, in a miners 
dress; he carries a lighted fagot in one hand, and 
a log in the other. 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 39 

Thos. I '11 have a blaze anon. — The night is cold, 
And firewood costs me nothing. 

\He lays wood upon the hearth, kindles it ; 

and then bolting his door, sits down upon 

a log by the fire. 

'T is bright and warm ! 
These dry pine logs burn cheerily enough ; 
Hissing "and crackling, blazing merrily, 
They are good company — and better still, 
They cost me nothing — do not call for wine, 
Sauces and dainty meats, and savoury dishes — 
They live without rich doublets — do not need 
Gold-hilted swords, nor rings, nor laced cravats. 
A fire 's a good, companionable friend, 
A comfortable friend, who meets your face 
With pleasant welcome, makes the poorest shed 
As cheerful as a palace ! Are you cold ? 
He warms you — weary ? he refreshes you — 
Hungry? he doth prepare your viands for you — 
Are you in darkness ? he gives light to you — 
In a strange land, his face is that of one 
Familiar from your childhood — are you poor? 
What matters it to him ? he knows no difference 
Between an emperor and the poorest beggar ! 
Where is the friend that bears the name of man 
Will do as much for you ? When I was rich 
I could have counted out a hundred men, 



40 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

And said, " All these would serve me, were there 

need!" 
And any one, or all, had sworn they would ; 
But when need came, where was the ready friend 
Said " Here 's my purse, good fellow !" 

Curse on them ! 
I had my liveried servants in those days ; 
Both men and maids I had to wait on me ; 
I slept on down ; the hangings of my bed 
Were damask ; I did eat from silver ; 
All sorts of meats, and rare elaborate dishes 
Were set before me, with the choicest wines ; 
Upon my hands I wore most dainty rings, 
And of the whiteness of my hands did boast ! 
Look at them now — hardened and seamed and dark ; 
I wear no jewels now — I drink no wine. 
A crust of bread, and a poor herb or two 
Make up my daily meal ; ■ — my couch is straw ; 
I have no liveried servants — and what then? 
Am I the less a man than in those days ? 
My limbs I use — and I use all my senses ; 
I see, hear, feel, taste, smell as I did then. 
Go to ! thou hast not lost much by the change ! 
Ay, but thou hast ! thou wast a rich man then, 
Had'st friends, at least thy riches made them for thee — 
Wast loved — poor wretch ! — art loved now thinkest 

thou? 
Look at thy sordid frame — look at thy garb — 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 41 

Look at thy blackened face, thy length of beard, 
Thy uncombed, tangled locks, could she love thee? 
'T is but a process I am passing through ; 
To-day the grub, but on the morrow morn 
The painted butterfly ! 

[ A rap is heard at his door. Thomas, 

starting, deadens the light with ashes, and 

carefully covers something in a hole in the 

wall — the rap is heard again. 

Trav. [without] For God's sake, worthy Christian, 

give me shelter. 
Thos. Who are you — and what brings you to this 

door ? 
Trav. A weary traveller who hath lost his way; 
And chance has brought me here. — I am sore spent ; 
The night is chill and stormy, give me shelter. 

Thos. My hut is no fit place for guest to lodge in ! 
I 've neither chair nor table, bread nor wine. 

Trav. But you have fire— and a good roof above 

you! 
Thos. A little further on a village lieth ; 
You '11 there get fire and shelter, and good cheer. 
Trav. Direct me there. 

Thos. [carefully opening his door~] First you must 
pass the mines ; 
Then cross yon woody ridge ; the hamlet lies 
Below, in the next valley. 



42 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

Trav. Thank you, friend ; 

And yet the way is long, and the night dark. 

Thos. 'T is scarce a league — follow yon trembling 
star, 
O'er the old tower ; you cannot miss the way. 

[he shuts to the door, and bars it. 
Am I to lodge all weary travellers ? 
If he got shelter, he 'd be asking food. 
No, no, i' faith, the world was none so ready 
To give me aught — I 've feasted guests enow ! 

[he puts out his fire, and then throws 
himself on the straw. 



SCENE III. 

A fine moonlight night. — A lonely field in the extre- 
mity of the valley of Torres.— Enter Thomas with 
an ass, he takes off the bridle and turns it to graze. 

Thomas. There, thou poor, half starved, patient animal, 

There 's grass, rare, green grass for thee ! eat thy fill, 

Would thou could'st take a store for forty days ! 

This once was mine — I tell thee, it was mine ! 

I know it inch by inch — yon leafy hedge 

Is hazel every twig. I little dreamed 

When I was wandering here a happy boy, 

The time would come when I should steal in here 

A thief o' nights ! 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 43 

Ah, I remember well — 
There is a little hollow hereabout, 
Where wild-briar roses, and lithe honeysuckle 
Made a thick bower ; 't was here I used to come, 
To read sweet books of witching poetry ! 
Could it be I ? No, no, I am so changed, 
I will not think this man was once that boy ; 
The thought would drive me mad ! I will but think 
I once knew one who called this vale his own ; 
I will but think I knew a merry boy, 
And a kind, gentle father, years agone, 
Who had their dwelling here ; and that the boy 
Did love this lonely nook, and used to find 
Here the first nests of summer ; here did read 
All witching books of glorious poetry ; 
And then, that as the boy became a youth, 
And gentle feeling strengthened into passion, 
And love became the p oetry of life, 
Hither he wandered, with a girlish beauty, 
Gathering, like Proserpine, sweet meadow-flowers ; 
And that they sate beneath the wild-briar rose, 
And that he then did kiss that maiden's cheek 
The first time as a lover ! Oh my God ! 
That was the heir of Torres — a brave boy, 
A noble-hearted boy ! he grew a man, 
And what became of him ? Ha ! pass we that — 
Would that I knew not what became of him ! 

\_He advances into the hollow, 



44 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

'Tis even as then! this bower hath little changed, 
But hearts have changed since then — and thoughts 

have changed, 
And the great purpose of a life hath changed ! 
Oh that I were a bird among these boughs, 
To live a summer life of peace and joy ; 
To never fret my soul for broken faith ; 

To have no onward hope, no retrospection! 

Ah ! there 's the tiny glow-worm as of old ! 

It is a lovely thing. O me ! how much 

That 's beautiful and pure have I forgotten ! 

Years is it since a glow-worm crossed my thoughts, 

And it was the bright marvel of my boyhood — 

A fire, and yet so cold ! let 's feel it now, 

If 'tis as it was then. [He stoops to pick it up. 

Heavens, it is gold ! 
And here is more ! bright, shining, glorious gold ! 

[He pulls away moss and roots, and draws 

out a small bag of gold coin. 
Let me into the moonlight — gold, gold, gold ! 
A hoard of shining gold : here lieth more 
Than I have saved in seven years' weary toil, 
And honest gain — this is some robber's booty — 
It were no sin to take a robber's gold, 

[A step is heard approaching. 
Ha ! some one comes ! 

[He shrinks into the shade, and lies close 

under the bank. 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 45 

Man. Now, by your leave, good friend, 
Who may you be ? 

Thos. A poor night traveller, 
Who takes up his cheap quarters 'neath the hedges. 

Man. I 'm in the like case too. But, honest friend, 
I have a little liking for your pillow, 
May'st please you take the farther side o' the bed ! 
Thos. First come, first served — it is a well 

known adage. 
Man. Come, come my friend, these are my ancient 
quarters ; 
I have a foolish liking for this spot — 
All are alike to you — 

Thos. I have possession, 

And will maintain it ! 

Man. It shall then be tried ! 

\_He lays hold on Thomas, and they 
struggle together. 

Ha ! ha, you thief, then you have got the bag ! 
Thos. I have ! 
Man. You villain ! you marauding thief ! 

[Thomas rushes into the thicket — 
the man follows. 

Man. [within the thicket. ~] I am a dead man, help ! 
oh, I am murdered ! 
Christ help me ! I am murdered ! 



46 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

Thos. [rushing out.^\ He is not ! no ! 
Cuffs do not murder men ! [he runs off. 



SCENE IV. 

A cave by the sea shore. — Enter Thomas of Torres ; 
he takes out the bag. 

Thos. Now let me count — now let me see my gains. 
Ah ! it reminds me of the thirty pieces, 
The price of blood ! I would give every piece 
To know he were not dead ! A murderer — 
Thomas of Torres a night murderer ! 
No, 't is not so ! they were not killing blows — 
I will not think of it ! 

Now let me count — 
[he counts out a hundred pieces. 
Oh, thou most goodly thing — most lovely gold ! 
Dearer unto my soul than meat or drink ; 
More beautiful than woman ! Glorious gold, 
I love thee as a youth his earliest mistress ! 
Come to my heart, thou bright and beautiful — 
Come, come ! [he hugs the gold. 

Bright prize, I care not how I won thee, 
I '11 ease my heart with thee ! A hundred pieces ! 
Had it been five-and-twenty — even fifty, 
I might have groaned for that poor wretch's groan — 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 47 

But for a hundred brave, broad, golden pieces 
I '11 groan not. 

[He takes off his belt, and then securely 
fixing them in it, fastens it round his body. 
Thou shalt be my true breast-plate, 
My heart's joy, my night and day companion ! 
But hence ! this is no land of safety for me. 

[he goes out. 



SCENE V. 

Several years afterwards. — A dark night in a distant 
country. — A field of battle covered with dead. — 
Enter Thomas of Torres with a small lantern in 
his hand. 

Thos. Rings ; dagger- sheaths ; gold chains and 
spurs ; massy gold embroidery — this is all clear gain 
— no deduction for agents — no plaguy discount' — all 
net profit ! [he gropes among the bodies.^ But ha ! — 
thou art worth looking after ! Come, my young 
gentleman, I '11 be your valet ! — Let go your sword. 
Poor wretch ! that was a strong death-grasp ! Now 
off with your rings ! — one, two, three ! I '11 lay my 
life thou wast a coxcomb — a fine blade, with wit as 
keen as thy sword's edge, [he tears open the pockets^ 
Empty, empty ! I 'd be sworn he expended his gold 
on his outside — I 've known such in my day ! 

[he goes forward ; — a groan is heard. 



48 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

Thos. Here 's life among the dead !— mercy ! that 
sound 
In this unearthly silence chills my blood. 

A faint Voice, For the dear love of Christ, be 't 
friend or foe, 
Make short my death ! 

Thos. What, art thou sick of life ? 
Voice. It is not life — it is a living death ! 
Thos. [approaching him, and looking at him atten- 
tively^. Ha ! thou 'rt an argosy with treasure laden ! 
Voice. My sword is at my head — for pity's sake, 
Make short work with it ! 

Thos. [seizing his hand.~] Gems worthy of a king! 
Wounded Man [raising himself.^ Off with thee, 
thou accursed plunderer, — 
Thou stony-hearted wretch, off, off ! 

[He faintly strikes him off, and then falls 
back dead. — Thomas proceeds to strip the 
body. 
Thou art a magazine of gems and gold ! 

[he draws a gold chain from his neck. 
What, more? Some love-gift ! — 'T was a heavenly lady, 
For whom our earthly gold was all too mean, 
That she was set with lustrous pearls o' the sea — 
Let 's see this radiant jewel of a lady ! 

Heavens ! it is Isabel — the gentle queen 
Of my young love — and this was her good lord ! 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 49 

Methought the voice had a familiar tone. 

Mine ancient friend ! thus have I paid thee back 

The treachery of thy wooing. — Yet, poor Count, 

My heart misgives me for despoiling thee — 

And thou, bright Isabel ! it was for thee 

I made the solemn vow, which 1 am keeping ; 

Accursed, wretched spoiler, that I am ! 

Let me begone ! 1 will not look again 

Upon a dead man's face — at least to-night ! 

[he gathers up his spoil, and goes slowly off. 



SCENE VI. 

A foreign city. — A miserable den-like room, surrounded 
with iron chests, secured with heavy padlocks — the 
door and windows grated and barred. — Thomas of 
Torres sitting at a desk, with pen and ink before him. 

Enter a fine gentleman. 

Gent. Good morrow, most excellent sir ! 

Thos. Humph! 

Gent. I have the misfortune, sir, to need a thousand 
gold pieces, and knowing your unimpeachable honour, 
I have pleasure in asking the loan from you. 

Thos. Humph! 

Gent. Your rate of interest, sir, is ? 

Thos. Thirty per cent, for spendthrift heirs, and 
two responsible sureties. 

E 



50 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

Gent. The terms are hard, sir. 
Thos. They are the terms ! 

Gent. Sir, twenty per cent, is high interest : else- 
where — 

Thos. Then go elsewhere ! 

[The Gentleman turns on his heel, 
and goes out whistling. 
Thos. The jackanapes ! 

Enter a grim-looking man. 

Man. He cannot pay, sir ; he declares it impos- 
sible, and prays you to have patience ; — and in the 
meantime leaves in your hand this casket. 

Thos. [opening it] Baubles ! — Can 't pay ! — im- 
possible ! — I say I will be paid ! 

Man. His ship was lost in the squall — he must sell 
the furniture of his house to cover your demand, and 
he prays you to have mercy on his wife and children ! 

Thos. Wife and children ! talk not to me of wives 
and children ! — I '11 have my money ! 

Man.- I tell you, sir, it is impossible, without you 
seize his goods. 

Thos. Then take the city bailiff, and get them 
appraised. 

Man I cannot do it, sir ! — You shall see him 
yourself, [aside] The nether mill-stone is running 
water compared to his heart ! [he goes out. 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 51 

Thos. Twenty thousand gold pieces, and seven 
months* interest — and give that up because a man 
has wife and children. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

[he resumes his pen, and calculates 
interest. 

Enter a gentleman, with a depressed countenance. 

Gent. Sir, my misfortunes are unparalleled — 
My ship was stranded in the squall last week, 
And now my wife is at the point of death ! 

Thos. Produce your sureties ! 

Gent. They have proved false — 

Alas ! they proved themselves false friends indeed ! 
They left the city ere I knew my loss, 
And are not to be found. 

Thos. Thou w r ast a fool 

To put thy trust in friends ; all friends are false ! 

Gent, [pointing to the casket] This casket, sir, I 
sent to you in pledge ; 
It holds the jewels of my dying wife, — 
She will not need them more ! 

Thos. I '11 not accept it ! 

I '11 have my money, every doit of it, 
Principal and interest, paid down this day ! 

Gent. Inhuman wretch ! — will you profane the 
chamber 
Of my poor dying wife ! 

e2 



52 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

TJios. I '11 have my money ! 

[The Gentleman, in great agitation, lays 
down a bundle of parchments before him. 

Thos. Well, what of these ? 

Gent. Give me the further sum 

Of twenty thousand pieces on these lands — 
These parchments will be surety for the whole ! 

Thos. [glancing over them.'] The lands of Torres ! 
ha ! ha ! ha ! — and you 're ? 

Gent. The lord of Torres. 

Thos. How shall I be sure 

Of the validity of these same deeds ? 

Lord of T. I 've heard it said that you are of that 
country ; 
If so, the signatures of its late lords, 
Father and son, may be well known to you. 

Thos. [carefully examining them.] I had some 
knowledge of them — these are theirs : 
And you give up your right unto this lordship 
For the consideration of the sum 
Of twenty thousand pieces ? 

Lord of T. No, no, sir ; 

That doth exceed my meaning. 

Thos. Then pay down 

The original sum, with interest, or a prison 
Shall be your home this night. 

Lord of T. 'T would be unjust 
To give away my children's patrimony ! 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 53 

Thos. Sir, take your choice. — Resign this petty 
lordship, 
Or go you to the prison ! 

[He resumes his pen, and sits down 
doggedly to his calculations. 

Lord of T. Ah, my wife, — 

My little innocent and helpless children ! 

Thos. Your home shall be a dungeon on the 
morrow ! 

Lord of T. Thou cruel bloodsucker ! thou most 
inhuman, 
Most iron-hearted scrivener ! 

Thos. Spare your tongue ! 

Ill words obtain not men's consideration — 
Pay down the principal and interest ! 

Lord of T. Sir, forty thousand pieces for the lordship 
Of Torres were a miserable price — 
Too cheap were it at sixty thousand pieces ! 

Thos* I know these lands of Torres — sore run out : 
Woods felled — house fallen to decay — I know it ; 
A ruined, a dilapidated place ! 

Lord of T. So did the last possessor leave it, sir — 
A graceless spendthrift heir, so did he leave it ; 
'T is now a place of beauty — a fair spot, 
None fairer under the broad face of heaven ! 

Thos. Sir, I am no extortioner, God knows ; 



54 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

I love fair, upright dealings ! I will make 
The twenty thousand pieces you have asked 
A thousand pieces more, and drop my claim 
To the whole sum of interest which is due ! 

Lord of T. Forty-one thousand pieces, and five 
hundred — 
'T is a poor price for the rich lands of Torres ! 
Thos. You do consent — let 's have a notary. 
Lord of T. Give me till night to turn it in my 

thoughts. 
Thos, 1 11 give you not an hour ! — not e'en a 
minute ! [he stamps on the floor with his foot. 
Enter a boy. 
Quick, fetch the notary ! [exit Boy. 

[The lord of Torres covers his face with 
his hands — Thomas of Torres resumes his 
calculations. 



SCENE VII. 

The hold of a ship. — Thomas of Torres seated upon an 
iron chest, and another beside him. — Enter a lady, 
wrapped in a long cloak and veiled ; two younger ones 
follow, supporting a third — the master of the vessel 
follows them. 

Lady. Are these, good sir, the best accommoda- 
tions ? 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 55 

Master. Unless you pay the price of what are better. 

Lady, [throwing bach her veil, and shewing a fair 
but sad countenance^ 
Sir, I have told you more of our distress 
Than may be pleasing to a stranger's ear ; 
I seek no favours on my own account, 
But for my youngest child, my dying daughter — 

Mast, [turning towards the young lady\ 
Poor, delicate young thing ! Oh no, not here 
Is a fit place for that poor, dying lady — 
Follow me madam. She shall have my cabin ; 
But stay my gentle mistress, lean on me ! 

[he supports the young lady out, and 
the others follow . 

Thos. Why, yonder is the lady of the pearls — 
The Isabel of my fond, boyish passion ! 
And she is poor, is burdened with three daughters ! 
Four women in a house would be expensive ! 
I was a fool to think I e'er should marry — 
Marry, forsooth, a widow with four daughters, 
And a poor widow too ! No, I '11 not marry ! 
'T is well they 're gone ; — if they had seen me here 
She might have asked for help in her distress, 
And 't would have seemed ungracious to refuse her. 
But I '11 beware, and keep out of her sight, 
I '11 warrant me, her eyes are sharp enough ! 



56 THOMAS OF TORRES. 



SCENE VIII. 

A small chamber in the house of Torres. — Thomas as 
the lord of Torres, with money-bags on his table. 

Lord of T. I am the lord of Torres ! that one thought 
Is with me night and day. The lord of Torres ! 
A rich lord, who need borrow gold nor silver, 
But will add heaps unto his countless heaps, 
Gold to his gold, and silver to his silver ! 

\A low rap is heard, and a poor widow 
enters timidly. 
Widow. Pardon, my lord : I am an aged widow, 
Whose children's children's bread depends upon me. 
I hold a little field, which we have held, 
In my dead husband's time, for forty years. 
The field to us, is as the staff of life ; 
Good tenants have we been, and regular, 
Never have missed our rent on quarter day ; 
But now your wealthy neighbour, John o'Nokes, 
Desires to have the field to add to his — 
He will be here anon to make his offer ; 
Oh my good lord, befriend a feeble widow, 
And her poor fatherless babes ! 

'T is not for me, 
To make a worthy offering to my lord — 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 57 

We are but poor — the field is all our wealth ; 
But what I have, I offer in submission. 

[She lays a few small silver coins before 
him, and a gold ring. 
Lord of T. You shall not be disturbed in your 

possession ! 
Wid. Ten thousand blessings on your noble 

lordship ! [she goes out. 

Lord of T. [testiny the ring and coins'] They 're 
sterling gold and silver, though the weight 
Is small ; but every little addeth to the whole. 
Enter john o'nokes. 
John [bowing very low.~\ There is a little field — 
a worthless field, 
My noble lord, which brings you little profit 
As 'tis now let ; and seeing it adjoins 
My land, and is upon the utmost verge 
Of your estate, I fain would buy it from you. 

Lord of T. I have no thought to sell that little field. 
John. My lord, its worth is small to your estate ; 
To mine 'tis otherwise — and she who rents it, 
Is poor, and hath no management of land. 

Lord of T. She pays her rent as true as quarter- 
day. 
John. That rent is small : my price would yield 

you more. 
Lord of T. I would not do her wrong, she is a 
widow ! 



58 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

John. She is a widow only through their crime. 
Her husband died for murder — a foul murder, 
Done in this very field ! 

Lord of T. This very field ! 

John. Yes, my good lord. Some nineteen years 
agone. 
Within a lonesome hollow of this field — 
A wandering pedlar was discovered, murdered. 
His ass, and all his little merchandise 
Were found within this woman's husband's shed. 
The facts were clear against him, though he swore 
Unto the last that he was innocent — 
And as was just, he died upon the gallows ! 
But you are pale, my lord — you 're very pale ! 

Lord of T. Pardon me, sir, my health is not the best. 

John. Well, sir, about the business of the field. 

Lord of T. The widow woman still shall hold the 
field! 

John, [laying a small hag before him]. But my 
good lord, to me it is an object — 
One hundred marks, I '11 give you for the field. 

Lord of T. What doth this hold, sir : is it gold 
or silver ? 

John. Gold, sir, each piece is gold ! 

Lord of T. One hundred marks ? — 

One hundred marks and ten, and it is yours ! 

John. Sir, every piece within that bag is gold ! 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 59 

Lord of T. One hundred marks and ten — I'll 

take no less ! 
John. My notary is without — I '11 bring him in. 

[he goes out. 
Lord of T. I '11 not believe it ! Other men had 
asses — 
And others might be murdered in that field ; 
Besides, if it were so, was it my crime 
That the land's law did deal unjustly by him ? 
Upon their heads, who heard him plead in vain, 
Shall be his innocent blood, and not on mine ! 

[he takes up the bag. 
Ha ! ha ! this wealthy purchaser has gold 
In plenty, if he thus can bribe. May be 
I have another little field will tempt him ; 
But next time, I will have a better price — 
Now let me find a place wherein to store it ! 

[he considers for a few moments — then takes 
up his keys, and goes to a small closet. 



SCENE IX. 

A chamber lighted by a small iron lamp, the lord of 
Torres in his night-cap and dressing-gown — a closet 
with an iron door is beside his bed, he has a bunch 
of keys in his hand. — Enter an old servant. 
Servant. Master, there is a woman at the door, 

And two small children ; they do cry for bread ; 

Only a little morsel ! 



60 THOMAS OF TORRES. 

Lord of T. Drive them hence ! 

A murrain on them ! 

Serv. I have warned them hence, 

But master, she is dying ; and the cry 
Of those poor little children wrings my heart ! 

Lord of T. Liars they are, and thieves ! Drive 

them away ! 
Serv. Master, good lack ! she will be dead ere 

morning ! 
Lord of T. Then elsewhere let her die ! Bethink 
you fool, 
'T would cost a noble, but to bury her! 

Serv. [going out] Good lord ! and he such plenty ! 

Enter steward. 

Steward. The barns are full, my lord, and there 
is yet grain to be housed. 

Lord of T. The cost were great to build more 
barns — let it be housed under this roof. 

Stew. My lord! 

Lord of T. To be sure ! the state-rooms are large 
and lofty — and to me they are useless, let them be 
filled! 

Stew. What! with the gilt cornices, and the old 
lords and ladies on the walls ! 

Lord of T. The same ! are they not well placed, 
so that a wain might approach without impediment ? 

Stew. It were a mortal sin! 



THOMAS OF TORRES. Gl 

Lord of T. I cannot afford to build new barns — 
remember the mildew last season, and the cow that 
died in March — these are great losses ! 

Stew. Well, my lord, the harvest is ready, it must 
be done quickly. 

Lord of T. A broad door-way making, will not 
cost much ; send me a builder to-morrow, and let us 
have an estimate — these people require being tied 
down to the farthing ! [the steward goes out. 

[The lord of Torres unlocks his iron door, 
counts his bags, puts his keys under 
his pillow, and then lies down — after 
some time, he starts up. 
Fire ! murder ! thieves ! my gold ! my iron chest ! 
They will break in, and rob my iron chest ! 

[he rubs his eyes, and looks around him. 
Was it a dream ? thank heaven, it was a dream ! 
Then all is safe — my iron chest is safe ! 

[he feels for his keys. 
Ay, they are safe, the keepers of my treasures — 
Now let me sleep — I 've much to do to-morrow. 
I must be wary in this estimate. 
One half the sum he asks will be enough ! 

[he lies down and sleeps. 
[An awful voice passes through the chamber. 
" Thou fool, this night thy soul will be required from 
thee; then whose will those things be which thou 
has provided?" 



62 



Achzib was abundantly satisfied with the result of 
his second temptation. He had watched the gradual 
strengthening of the passion ; the sealing up, as it 
were, of the heart against both God and man. 

" It was not," said Achzib, in great self-gratula- 
tion, " because the temptation was in itself strong, 
that I have this time been so successful, but especially 
because the tempted was so wisely chosen. Human 
nature has a strange propensity to extremes ; he who 
wastes his patrimony with profligate indifference, 
and reduces' himself to penury, is of all others the 
man to become insatiably avaricious. In proportion 
as he lavished in youth, will he hoard up in age ; 
the hand that threw away thousands, will afterwards 
clutch at groats, — and, oh marvellous inconsistency ! . 
not from having learned the value of the good he 
has abused, but from a passionate lust of possession, 
which, like the extravagance of madness, seems to 
reverse the very nature of the man." 



63 

" The world," continued Achzib, " has but little 
sympathy for the ruined spendthrift ; men are slow 
in giving to him who has not taken care of his own — 
and thus they assist the reaction of his spirit. He 
talks of the faithlessness of friends, of the jeers and 
taunts of the world, and the triumph of enemies, 
till, exciting himself to hostility against his kind, 
he commences a warfare upon it, and becomes its 
scourge and its shame. He gives not to the needy ; 
because, says he, in my need, none gave to me — 
and he gets all he can by fair means and foul, because 
in his abundance all, he believes, made a prey of 
him. Oh, most blind and senseless of passions ! — he 
would even rob himself, to enrich his coffers — 'he 
would deny himself even sustenance, were it not 
that death would sever him from the god of his 
idolatry !" 

" And now," said Achzib, " I will try this passion 
in a modified degree, upon another and a nobler 
spirit. The sins of Thomas of Torres, comparatively 
speaking, were sins against society at large. My 
next victim shall be taken from the bosom of affec- 
tion ; he shall bring desolation upon the domestic 
hearth, and wither those souls in which he was bound 
up as in the bundle of life. To accomplish this, 
I must first sap, if not remove the barriers of sound 
principle. But once familiarize him with sin; but 



64 

once induce him to sunder some one tie which has 
hitherto bound him to virtue, — no matter how slight 
it be, — the most important work is done, and the 
remaining ties become loosened : for the first derelic- 
tion of duty, the first swerving aside from the inte- 
grity of virtue, is the act by which a human soul 
becomes the chartered victim of evil. ,, 

"The mere sordid miser," continued Achzib, recur- 
ing once more to his subject, "is a hateful spectacle. 
The toad hiding itself under a noisome stone, is not 
more hideous than his moral deformity ; but the 
downfal of a nobler spirit, drawing, as it were, the 
seventh part of heaven after it, in the darkened 
pleasures, the wounded affections of all that clung to 
it, is an achievment worthy of the Prince of Darkness 
himself !" 



THE PIRATE. 



THE PIRATE. 



PERSONS. 

ALBERT LUBERG, THE PIRATE. 

MADAME LUBERG, HIS MOTHER. 

CONSTANCE, HER NIECE, AND THE BETROTHED OF 

ALBERT. 

ACHZIB, THE CAPTAIN OF THE VESSEL. 

EDAH, A YOUNG ISLANDER. 

SEAMEN, CREW OF THE WRECK, MERCHANTS, AND 

TOWNS-PEOPLE. 



SCENE I. 

A seaport city. — Evening. — A small mansion in the 
suburbs; Constance sitting in a little room, looking at 
a miniature. 

Constance. There is a faint resemblance — but so faint ! 
And yet the eyes in colour are the same — 
So is the hair, with its thick clustering curls — 
And the fine oval of the countenance ; 
But oh, the mouth ! no, no, it is not Albert's ! 
And yet, when he is absent, I shall say 
'T is like, 't is very like ! Oh, how I wish 

f 2 



68 THE PIRATE. 

This voyage were made ! my heart has fearful 

auguries ; 
And when I pray for him, my spirit takes 
All unawares such fervency of tone 
As terrifies myself. Great God protect him ! 

Enter madame luberg ; she sits down by Constance. 

Mad. L. I am the bearer of most heavy tidings ! 

Cons. Is Albert dead ? 

Mad. L. Oh no, oh no, thank heaven ! 
Compared with that, my news is light indeed ! 
The sudden squall that came and passed at noon, 
Like lightning in its speed, loosened his vessel 
From its strong moorings, drove it out of harbour, 
And there, in half a moment, it went down ! 
All, all is lost, not even a single bale 
Is come to shore ! 

Cons. And any lives on board ? 

Mad. L. But two, the helmsman and a cabin-boy ; 
The others were gone out by Albert's leave, 
To pass the day on shore. God help him now ! 
For there went down his all. — All, all was ventured 
In that one cargo ; he 's a beggar now ! 
No longer Albert Luberg the young merchant, 
On whom the old grey-headed men on 'Change 
Looked with respect 'cause fortune favoured him ! 
Yet that was the least reason he should win 



THE PIRATE. 09 

A wise man's grace — was he not good and kind ? 

A prudent, generous captain ; loved by all, 

And served with such devotion that his crew 

Symbolled fidelity ? and such a son ! 

Oh, there is not a mother in the city, 

But, when impressing on her child its duty, 

Says, "be thou but a son like Albert Luberg!" 

[she weeps. 
Cons, This is our consolation, not our sorrow ! 
God will not let him want a helping hand — 
He only tries him thus, to prove his virtue. 
But hark — his step ! Oh, 't is his step indeed ! 

Enter albert. 

Mad, L, God give thee comfort in this great 
affliction, 
And make it work together for thy good ! 

Albert, Mother, your prayer is answered — so is 
yours, 
Dear Constance, for I see you have been weeping, 
Like my poor mother ; but you ' ve won from heaven 
Blessing for one unworthy as I am ! 

Cons, No, not unworthy, Albert ! But what 

blessing ? 
Albert. Oh, you shall hear — it is a new romance ! 
Now listen. I was standing on the rocks, 
With my eyes fixed upon the boiling spot 



7() THE rill/VTE. 

Where my good ship went down, full of sad thoughts, 

When there came up a foreign gentleman, 

Drest in an antique garb. Awhile he stood 

With his eye fixed on me, and then he spake 

Some cruel words of passing condolence, 

Which I more briefly answered ; for my heart 

Lay with my sunken ship, nor had I mood 

To talk with any one ; so I went further, 

And took another station : there he came, 

And once again addressed me ; " Sir," said he, 

" I am no stranger to your reputation — 

All men have heard the name of Albert Luberg, 

And from my soul I ever longed to serve him !*' 

Mad. L. 'Twas very true, 't was very true, my son ; 
Yet like I not these over-civil men. 

Albert. Nay, hear me on. To this I made reply, 
11 Your good opinion flatters me too much !" 
To which he said, " Merit is diffident," 
And twenty other gracious common-places ; 
And so discourse went on : at length, said he — 
And here his voice assumed another tone, 
The blandest, the most winning e'er I heard, 
" Will you to sea again ?" " Gladly," said I, 
" For diligence must give me fortune back: 
Those that are dearer unto me than life, 
Depend upon my labour." " Done !" said he, 
" You shall win fortune bfcck ! now look you there ; 



THE PIRATE. 71 

Beyond that point of rock, my vessel lies !" 

I looked, and in a distant cove descried 

A stately vessel lying at its anchor. 

" Yon ship," said he, " is mine, well-manned and 

freighted 
For a far port." 

Cons. And do you sail with him ? 

Albert. I do, dear love, even this very night 
If the wind favour, when the moon shall rise ; 
Soon after midnight will they weigh the anchor. 

Cons. And to what port ? and who is this strange 
captain — 
And what the vessel's name ? 

Albert. I was so chained 

By the strong fascination of his voice, 
I thought not of his name, nor of the vessel's ; 
Our destination, is unto the east. 

Mad. L. It is a compact that comes o'er my heart 
Like evil influence. 

Albert. 'T is woman's fear 

Makes you desponding. If I went with Raphael, 
Like Tobit in old time, you would have fear 
And augury of ill ! Heard you my friend, 
His easy gaiety, his frank good-humour, 
His almost fatherly kindness for your son, 
You would not have one fear ! 

But, dearest Constance, 



72 THE PIRATE. 

Here is a parting present, to console you 
When I am far away ! 

[he holds up a chain of diamonds. 

Cons. No, not console me ! 

But Albert, whence came these ? so beautiful, 
A dowry for an empress ! 

Mad. L. Here is wealth 

Might make thy vessel's loss of small account — 
Their value frightens me ! where came they from ? 

Albert. They are an earnest from my unknown 
friend, 
Of my redeemed fortune. They were given 
For thee, dear Constance, with such pleasant raillery 
On woman's love of show, as made me envy 
The sportive keenness of his merry wit. 

Mad. L. God send it all for good ! But tell me now 
On what conditions, sail you with this man ? 

Albert. On strange conditions truly, for himself; 
For me, without exception. Thus they run : 
That without bond, or even doit laid down, 
I shall become co-partner in the vessel, 
Now and for ever, and in all her tradings 
Have equal share, with this sole stipulation, 
That I shall hold myself to him subservient. 
To this I have subscribed ; and by a notary 
It has been sealed and witnessed in due form. 

Mad. L. I like it not ! For in these sordid times 



THE PIRATE. (6 

Men do not willingly give up their profit 
Without equivalent. But God is good ! 
And He will guard you if you trust in him. 
My son, a mother's blessing be with thee ! 
But there are various little stores and comforts 
Which 't is your mother's privilege to furnish, 
I will go get these ready, though 't is late ! 

[she goes oat. 

Albert, [taking Constance's hand.~\ Dear love, you 
look so pale, so very anxious ! 
Why are you thus cast down ? 

Cons. Must we not part ? 

And then I have so many, many fears ! 
I say " amen " to all your mother uttered ; — 
I do not like this man ! 

Albert. Fear nothing, love ! 

Ere long I will return ; and then, sweet Constance, 
You know your promise for that blessed time — 
Till then be happy, dear one ! laugh and sing 
As you were wont, and fill the house with gladness, 
As the birds fill the woods in summer time. 

Cons, [taking up the diamonds.^ But these — I can- 
not wear them ! take them back — 
I have a superstitious dread of them — 
They are like the thirty pieces in the Scripture, 
The price of blood ! 

Albert. Oh, foolish, foolish girl ! 



74 THE PIRATE. 

But you shall wear them ! They are amulets — 
And will grow dim if I am false to you ! 

Cons. Oh, take them, take them hence ! they are 
so heavy ! 

[she falls on his neck and weeps. 
Albert. My dearest one ! look up, and let me kiss 
Away these idle tears. 

Cons. Oh, Albert, Albert ! 

I know that we shall never meet again — 
I know that some great sorrow hangeth o'er us— 
True love has ever a prophetic spirit I 

Mad. L. [cording in.~\ Here is a messenger come 
down in haste 
To summon you — the boat is at the quay ! 

Albert. Truly he keeps quick time ! — The moon's 
not up — 
But we must part at last, — and farewell 's said 
As easily now as at another time. 
My dearest love, good bye ! 

Mother, God bless you ! 
Mad. L. Farewell, my son — may God Almighty 
bless you. 

[He looks upon them with great tenderness, 
then goes out, and shortly after returns. 
Albert. I am a fool, a very childish fool, 
Thus to return to say " good-bye " again ; 
But my heart yearned toward you, and I obeyed it. 



THE PIRATE. /5 

Once more, dear mother, let me kiss thy cheek, 
And take once more thy blessing ! 

[he embraces her solemnly. 
And, sweet love, [to Cons. 
Once more, once more farewell ! What ails my heart ? 
I never was so much a child before. 
Cons. May God in heaven bless you ! 

[Albert rushes out. 



SCENE II. 

Night. — A vessel on the mid seas; a fine moon shining. 
— The watch on deck. 

1st Man. Now, messmate, can you understand 
what sort of trip we are on ? 

2nd Man. Trading, I take it. Ar'n't we bound 
to the Indies ? 

1st Man. So they say; but mark me if there is n't 
some other scheme at bottom. Here have we been 
tacking about in these seas for the last fifteen days, 
and a steady wind blowing all the time ! The old 
captain gives orders through the young one — the 
devil 's at the bottom of the business, I say. 

2nd Man. And let it be the devil himself ! : — while 
he gives the wages he does, and plenty of grog, I '11 
go round the world with him. Don't you bother 



76 THE PIRATE. 

your brains with other folks' business; — let 's have a 
song ! here 's mine without asking for, the jolly song 
of the devil at sea — 

" Let the winds blow " 



1st Man. Don't be singing that song for ever, or 
I '11 take it for a bad token. — Can't you give us a 
good hymn, or a song set to a hymn-tune ? 

2nd Man. Why, one might think you were 
growing godly in your old age — ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
You 're mighty particular for a fellow that loves the 
can! A hymn -tune, on my conscience— ha! ha! ha! 
Well, here goes, then 

Who was the first sailor ? — tell me who can ; 
Old Father Neptune ? — No, you 're wrong ; 
There was another ere Neptune began ; 

Who was he ? tell me. Tightly and strong 
Over the waters he went — he went, 
Over the waters he went ! 

Who was the first sailor ? — tell me who can ; 

Old Father Noah ? — No, you 're wrong ; 
There was another ere Noah began ; 

Who he was, tell me ? Tightly and strong 
Over the waters he went — he went, 
Over the waters he went, 



THE PIRATE. 77 

Who was the first sailor ? — tell me who can ; 

Old Father Jason ? — No, you 're wrong ; 
There was another ere Jason began ; 

Don't be a blockhead, boy ! Tightly and strong 
Over the waters he went — he went, 
Over the waters he went ! 

Ha ! 't is nought but the poor little Nautilus — 

Sailing away in his ancient shell ; 
He has no need of a compass like us, 
Foul or fair weather, he manages well ! 
Over the water he goes — he goes, 
Over the water he goes ! 

Helmsman, Land a-head ! — Down with you, to the 
captains below, and don't keep dinning there with 
your cracked pipes ! 

Enter the captain and albert. 
Cap. The isle I told you of! 'tis in our reckoning, 
But 'tis an undiscovered island yet 
By any but myself. In my last voyage, 
Thus standing on the deck, helmsman myself 
And watch, I first discerned it on a night 
Radiant as this, yet do I claim it not — 
Yours be the honour of discovering it ! 
You shall first give the knowledge to the world 
Of a new paradise amid the sea. 



78 THE PIRATE. 

Albert. How bright the moonlight falls upon its 
shores ! — 
"What slumberous shades lie in those woody valleys — 
What sky-ascending mountains, with white peaks 
Shining like silver spires ! — and what a weight 
Of spicy odour comes on every breeze ! 
Oh, glorious land ! surpassing all my dreams 
Of Eden while the angels walked in it. 
But let 's cast anchor here — the soundings taken, 
Are seven fathom water with good anchorage. 

Cap. Let it be done ! 

\The anchor is cast — all hands crowd on 
deck, eagerly looking out. — Morning be- 
gins to break. — The Captain and Albert 
stand together on the forecastle. 

Cap. Now, friend, you will acknowledge your sus- 
picion 
Has done me great injustice ! 

Albert. Pardon me ! 

I was indeed unjust — I was impatient 
Of our long wandering. — My brain grew weary 
With reckoning latitude and longitude, 
Month after month — beside, the crew began 
To have, like me, suspicions — and to murmur. 
But you must pardon me ! Give me your hand — 
I will not doubt you more ! 



THE PIRATE. 79 

Cap. [taking his hand eagerly] No, doubt me not! 
Swear you will trust in me from this day forth ! 

Albert. I will — I will ; — and by yon glorious isle, 
Over whose eastern summits kindles now 
The splendour of the sunrise, I will swear 
To serve you, put free confidence in you. 
Good heavens ! there hath a sudden cloud arisen 
Which hath obscured the morning ! 

Cap. You have sworn \ 

Now contemplate the island at your leisure. — 
Now is he my sure victim, and for ever ! [aside. 

Yon fairy isle will so subdue his soul 
With its luxurious pleasures — he no more 
Will be the chafed lion he has been ! [he goes below. 
[ The morning shines out, and the island 
becomes perfectly distinct. 

Albert. Beautiful island, rising out of darkness 
Like a divine creation, a new day 
Hath dawned upon thee, a momentous day 
Never to be forgotten, which will change 
Thy destiny for ever ! 

Hast thou sinned 
That God has taken away the sacred veil 
Which kept thy mountain tops concealed so long 
From eye of civilized man ? Oh innocent people ! 
The cup of knowledge now is at your lips, 
And ye will drink — ay, drink, and find it poison ; 



80 THE PIRATE. 

For in the train of civilization comes 
Sure ill, and but remote, uncertain good ! 

Strange is it, that my singular destiny, 
Under the guide of that mysterious man, 
Has led me only, of ten thousand voyagers, 
To this fair island ! Ah ! for what intent 
I know not, evil or good — but this I know, 
It must be glorious — yes, it shall be glorious ! 
I will return in triumph to my city, 
And make a splendid holiday with news 
Of this fair conquest from the unknown sea ! 
But there they throng, the natives of the land, 
Gazing in eager wonder from the heights ! 

[he examines them through his glass. 
A noble race, in their unfettered beauty, 
As God first made them, with their mantle folds 
Descending to the knee, and massy armlets, 
And chains of twisted gold, pliant as silk ! 
And women, too, like goddesses of old, 
Or nymphs by some gloomed fountain ! 

Let 's to land, 
The sun ascends ; and those cool-gladed woods 
Promise delicious rest. — Let 's to the shore ! 



THE PIRATE. 81 

SCENE III. 

A beautiful rocky valley, crowned with palms, plan- 
tains, and all the rich and picturesque vegetation of 
tropical climates. 

The captain and albert. 

Cap. Not satisfied! Is three months' tarriance 
Too little for your will ? 

Albert. Three little moons ! 

Why here one might live out an age of love, 
And count it as the passing of a day ! 
But you, by nature cold and anti-social, 
Can have no spark of sympathy with us ! 
Choose you a bride from these sweet islanders, 
And in the lap of pleasure take your ease, 
Then will I leave the island at your bidding ! 

Cap. Fool that you are ! Mean you to tarry out 
Existence in this place ! Where is the glory 
Of bearing to your native port the tidings 
Of a new land ? where is the proud ambition 
That once was Albert Luberg's, to be great ? 
Have you ne'er thought upon a gentle maiden 
That sits beside your mother all day long, 
Shedding hot tears on her embroidery frame ; 
Waiting till she is sick at heart for tidings ; 
Enquiring ship-news from all voyagers ; 
And hoping until hope itself is dead ? 



82 THE PIRATE. 

If fortune, fame, ambition count as nothing ; 

Is love too valueless, save for a dusk 

Young beauty of the woods, who is a pebble 

Beside a kingly diamond, if compared 

With that fair mourning girl ? Oh ! virtue, virtue, 

Thou art a mockery ; a base, gilded coin, 

That men buy reputation with ! 

Albert. No more ! 

We will collect the seamen scattered now 
Over the island ; lay in fruits and stores 
Of all this most munificent land affords ; 
And ere the moon, which now is in the wane, 
Shall be a silver thread, hoist sail and bear 
Over the waves away ! 

Cap. Let it be done. 

[they go forward. 



SCENE IV. 
A sylvan grotto, the floor covered with rich Indian mat. 
Albert asleep, with his head resting on the knees of 
Edah, a beautiful young native, who fans him with a 
gorgeous plume of feathers — she sings in a low, 
sweet voice : 

Little waves upon the deep 
Murmur soft when thou dost sleep; 
Gentle birds upon the tree, 
Sing their sweetest songs for thee ; 



THE PIRATE. 83 

Cooling gales, with voices low, 
In the tree-tops gently blow ! 
Dearest, who dost sleeping lie, 
All things love thee, so do I ! 

When thou wak'st the sea will pour 
Treasures for thee to the shore ; 
And the earth in plant and tree, 
Bring forth fruits and flowers for thee ; 
And the glorious heaven above 
Smile on thee like trusting love ! 
Dearest, who dost sleeping lie, 
All things love thee, so do I ! 

Albert, {opening his eyes'] 'T is a sweet song, who 
taught it thee, my Edah ? 

Edah. Love taught it me — I made it as I sang, 
I ever think thus when I think of thee ! 
Thou art a song for ever in my soul ! 

Albert. My glorious Edah, thou art like a star 
Which men of old did worship ! 

Edah. Golden stars ! 

The wise men of our nation call them worlds, 
Where happy spirits dwell — where those that loved, 
And those that have been wise and good, like thee, 
Live in delight, and never die again. 
I love the stars — the happy stars — dost thou ? 
g2 



84 THE PIRATE. 

Albert. All that is beautiful resembles thee, 
And what resembles thee I love, my Edah ! 
But know'st thou we must part ? 

Edah. Why must we part ? 

Oh, no ! thou said'st we would not part till death ! 

Albert. A spirit from my native land doth call— 
I may not disobey it ! 

Edah. When called it thee ? 

Albert. I hear it calling ever — I must hence ! 

Edah. Is 't death ? For on the eve my sister died 
I saw a shadowy phantom, and I heard 
Low voices calling — is it death thou hearest ? 

Albert. No, no, my beautiful ! it is not death, 
But it is strong as death ! — In my far land 
I have a mother who doth mourn for me, 
And ever, ever do I hear her voice ! 

Edah. Oh ! I would leave my mother for thy sake ! 
Let me go with thee ! 

Albert. Sweet love, that cannot be ! 

Far, far we go beyond the setting sun ! 
I cannot take thee with me. Yon dark man 
That ever in the ship keeps by himself, 
Is a stern chief, we dare not disobey him ; 
He would not let thee come on board with me ! 

Edah. Oh woe is me ! oh woe, oh woe is me ! 

[She wrings her hands in an agony of 
despair — Albert embraces her tenderly. 



THE PIRATE. 85 

Albert. My dearest love ! my dark-eyed island 
beauty ! 
Look on me, Edah, listen to my words — 
Thou art the chosen bride of a white man, 
Be worthy of his love — this passionate grief 
Control, as I do mine ! 

Edah. Thou dost not love ! 

Thou couldst not lay thy life down for my sake — 
Oh thou art calm and cold, thou lovest not ! 
I cannot live if I behold thee not ; — 
Thou wilt live on — thou wilt love other maids, 
Will break their hearts as thou hast broken mine ! 

Albert. Heaven is my witness, that I love thee, 
Edah ! 

Edah. My lord ! my lord ! swear not ! didst thou 
not swear 
Day after day, that we should never part ? 
Thy words are like thy love, all perfidy ! 
Swear not, swear not, lest the great God be angry, 
And 'whelm thee in the deep. — Alas ! alas ! 
What a great grief is mine ! 

[she rushes from the grotto. 

Albert. Poor wounded heart, 

Thy morning is o'erclouded — a great sorrow 
Will bow thy youthful beauty to the ground, 
And thou wilt curse the day whereon we met ! 
Kind trusting spirit, I have done thee wrong ! 



86 THE PIRATE. 

Enter the captain. 

Cap. What, are you tarrying still ! the girl is 
gone, 
The wind is fair, the seamen are aboard ; 
Sullen enough, yet they obey my orders, 
You only lag behind. 

Albert. Would we had never 

Broken the sleep of this fair paradise ! 
Sorrow and sin have entered, as of old 
They entered into Eden, 

Cap. Enough, fond fool, 

Of your pathetic whine ! who was this time 
The wily snake that robbed the gentle Eve 
With flattering lies, of her sweet innocence ? 

Albert. Nay, taunt me not ! lead on, and I will 

follow ! 

[they go off together. 



SCENE. V. 

The deck of the ship, all hands on board, anchor 
weighed, and sails set — a crowd of natives on shore; 
women tearing their hair and uttering loud lamen- 
tation — a little boat puts off, rowed by Edah. 

Cap. Crowd sail ! let not yon little boat approach ! 
Albert. This moment slacken sail ! take in the 
canvass ! 



THE PIRATE. 87 

Cap, [aside] Blind fool of headlong passion, ha\ e 
your way ; 

[lie folds his arms, and looks sullenly on. 
The boat comes alongside — Albert 
throws out a ladder and descends into it. 
Albert. What now, my love, would' st thou ? 
Edah. Oh do not leave me ! 

Come back and see the grotto I have decked — 
Thou said'st thou lovedst the red-rose and the lotus, 
Come back and see how I have twined them for thee ! 
Thou said'st thou lovedst the gushing, fragrant melon, 
I 've sought the island o'er to find the best ; 
Come back and eat it with me ! 

Albert. Oh, kind heart, 

It wounds my very soul to part from thee ! 

Edah. Each shell thou praised — pearl ones, that 
blush inside, 
And rosy corallines, I have collected — 
Oh come thou back ! I would be slave to thee, 
And fetch thee treasure from the great sea- caves ! 
I would do aught to win thee back again. 

Albert. Peace, peace ! poor innocent heart, thou 

dost distress me ! 
Edah. Oh thou art angry, I have angered thee — 
I have said that which is unpleasing to thee ! 
Let me go with thee ! I will be thy sister ; 
Will watch by thee, when thou art sick or weary ; 



88 THE PIRATE. 

Will gather fruits for thee ; will work bright flowers 

Into a mantle for thee : I will be 

More that a loving daughter to thy mother ! 

Albert. Thou can'st not go ; but, my sweet island 
queen, 
I will return to thee ! now fare thee well ! 

Edah. Wilt thou, wilt thou indeed ! oh then fare- 
well 
For a short season. I will watch for thee 
For ever from the hills, and all night long 
Keep a bright beacon burning ! Oh come soon, 
And bring thy mother with thee — I will love her, 
Thou dost not know how I should love thy mother ! 
Albert. But we must part ! so now my love, 
farewell. [he embraces her. 

Edah. But tell me, tell me ! when thou wilt come 

back ! 
Albert. Soon, soon, O very soon — farewell, fare- 
well ! 

[he springs again on deck — gives a sign y 
and the ship is put in motion. 
Edah. Oh take me ! take me with you ! for I know 
He never, never will come back again ! 



THE PIRATE. 89 

SCENE VI. 

Mid-seas — the deck of the ship — Albert and the 
Captain stand together, with glasses in their hands 
— a ship is seen in the distance, slowly making way 
as if heavily laden. 

Albert. She is a goodly ship, well-built and large, 
But in her aspect she has something strange ; 
She walks the glittering waters wearily ; 
There is an air of desolation on her ; 
If she were human, I should call her haggard ! 

Cap. [to the seamen]. Quick, slacken sail ! we 
will join company ! 

[he looks again through his glass. 
} T is a strange vessel, and a stranger crew ! 
They look like dead men risen from their graves ! 
Albert, [speaking through a trumpet]. What cheer, 
whence come, and whither are ye bound ? 
And why are ye so few, and ghastly all ? 

[no answer is returned, the ship slowly 
takes in sail, and comes alongside. 
Albert. Oh heavens ! they are like dead men ! 
[Many weak voices from the ship]. Water! water! 
Cap. Speak, one of you, whence come ? and what's 

your freight I 
Man. Our cargo is of gold, and pearl, and diamond, 
A kingly freight, from India ; but we 're cursed ; 



90 THE PIRATE. 

The plague is in the ship ! All, all are dead 

Save we, and we are twelve ! Give, give us water ! 

We have not had a drop for twenty hours ! 

Cap. [to Albert], You see these men — 'twere 
merciful to kill them, 
They will go raging mad before to-morrow, 
And prey on one another, like wild beasts. 
And then the cargo ! Think you what a freight — 
Gold, pearl, and diamond ! 

Albert, Nay, tempt me not — 

I cannot shed their blood. I am no murderer ! 
Cap, They'll die ; and think ye not 'twere 
merciful 
To rid them of their miserable lives ? 

Albert. No, let them die, as die they surely must ; 
We will keep near them, and when all are dead, 
Possess the abandoned cargo ! 

Cap. As you will ! 

[Albert speaks with his seamen — they 
crowd on sail with alacrity, and the 
ship begins to move. 
Sailors of the plague ship, [with frantic gestures]. 
Oh give us but one little cask of water ! 
For God's sake give us water ! 

[The ship moves off, and the sailors of 
the plague -ship are heard uttering 
dreadful imprecations. 



THE PIRATE. 91 

SCENE VII. 

Night — third night from parting with the ship — 
deck of Albert's vessel — watch on deck, 

1st Man. And all to have share and share alike 
in the plunder — why you can't say but that is fair 
enough ; and yet drown me, if I like the job ! 

2nd Man. Neither do I ! and yet if they 're 
dead, 't will be neither robbery nor murder, and they 
must be dead by this time. But somehow, it went 
against my conscience to leave 'em as we did : I 
warrant a cask o' water would n't have kept 'em 
alive a day longer ! / 

1st Man, But th' old one said if they had water 
they would go raging mad, and eat one another. 

2nd Man. I say, did you see the big fellow 
with the red eyes ? never saw I such a sight before ! 

1st Man. Well, the fearsomest thing I saw, 
and the saddest, was a boy about as big as my Jack, 
with hands like claws, they were so wasted away, 
and a poor, yellow, deathly face, that set its patient 
lead-coloured eyes upon me, and for all the clamour, 
never said a word, but kept looking and looking, as 
if it had a meaning of its own, that I should know. 
Well, I '11 tell you a secret, what, said I to myself, 
should it want but water, so I heaved up a can of 
water over to him, and I shall never forget his look, 



92 



THE PIRATE. 



to my dying day ! My heart fairly sprung a leak — 
for what did he do with it ? he tasted not a drop 
himself, but poured it into a poor fellow's mouth, 
that was lying gasping beside him — I guessed it was 
his father ! 

2nd Man. Well, 1 11 tell you what, I wish we 
had got it all over! It looks dismal to see that 
death- ship always before us. But this is the third 
day, and as soon as morning breaks we shall come 
up with her and see what state she 's in. 



SCENE VIII. 

Morning — they lie alongside the strange vessel — 
the crew still on board, with wild looks and making 
menacing gestures. 

albert and the captain stand together. 

Albert. Not one of them is dead — how gaunt they 
look, 
How horribly ferocious, with clenched hands 
Like furious skeletons ! 

Cap. Board them at once, 

And cut them down at once, nor thus be mouthed at ! 

Albert. Still, still you are a bloody councillor ! 

Cap. Well, if you still object unto the means, 
Let 's leave this wretched ship to rot at once, 
And give her cargo to the thankless deep ! 



THE PIRATE. 93 

I 'm tired of dodging them — we might as well 

D c"> & 

Be changed to greedy sharks as follow thus 
These wretches day by day ! 

Albert. I am perplexed 

Between the wish to have, and the repugnance 
To shedding human blood ! 

Cap. Let 's spread the sail, 

And leave them to the sea — them and their gold ! 

Albert. No, no, we '11 have the gold ! 

Cap. You are a man ! 

Gold is too good to pave the ocean with — 
Throw out the grappling irons ! Board the ship, 
And end their miserable lives at once ! 

\A horrible scene ensues — the strange 
crew is murdered — the ship plundered 
and set fire to. 



SCENE IX. 

Several hours afterwards — Albert's cabin ; he rushes in 
distractedly, throws his bloody cutlass on the floor, 
and flings himself upon a couch. 

a sailor enters hastily. 

Sailor. There is a woman on the burning ship ! 
Albert. Oh save her, save her ! By one act of 
mercy 



94 THE PIRATE. 

Let us atonement make to outraged heaven ! 

[the sailor goes out. 
Oh what a bloody wretch I am become, 
The ocean would not cleanse my soul again, 
Atonement never can be made to heaven ! 
Not even the blood of Christ could wash me clean ! 

[he starts up, and sees himself in a mirror. 
My mother would not know me ! no, no, no ! 
And Constance would not know me ! I am lost — 
The flames of hell are in my burning soul. 
The gold is cursed for which I did this thing, 
And I am cursed that yielded to temptation ; 
Give, give me drink — and let me murder thought, 
As I have murdered men ! 

[he fills a goblet several times and drinks, 
then dashes the goblet to the floor. 
It tastes like blood ! 
And wine will ever taste thus, so will water ! 
The bread I eat will choke me ! 

I am mad ! 
I am gone raging mad ! 

[he reels out of the cabin. 



THE PIRATE. 95 

SCENE X. 

The deck — Albert, holding a young female by the arm 
— Jewels and gold are scattered about. 

Albert. Thou say'st thy name is Angela — well — 
well — 
Thou shalt be now the angel of the ship ! 
Shalt be my queen — my little ocean-queen ; 
And I will deck thee in most regal fashion — 
Come, thou shalt have these diamonds on thy neck ! 

[he takes up a necklace. 
Angela. Keep back thy horrid arm ! — Those 
diamonds i — 
Oh, sir, they were my mother's ! If thou have 
A mother, I conjure thee by her love, 
Have pity on me ! If thou have a sister, 
Think of her innocence, and wrong me not ! 
Oh, thou art young ! — thou must — thou must have 
pity! 
Albert. I have a mother — but she would not know 
me — 
The savage creatures are my kindred now ! 
But I will love thee, Angela — will make 
Thee queen o' th' sea — I '11 wed thee with this ring ! 
[lie attempts to put a ring on her finger. 
Angela. Away with thy unholy touch ! away ! 

[she springs to the prow of the vessel. 



96 THE PIRATE. 

If thou but lay thy finger on my garment, 

The sea shall have a creature so polluted ! 

Stand off ! thou shalt not drag me from this place — 

Here will I die, if so the will of heaven ! 

Albert, [turning aside, and pressing his hand on his 
forehead,'] I'm mad! I knew I was ! — this 
throbbing pain 
Is madness ! — I have done a deed of hell, 
And God has cursed me for it ! — Angela ! 
I will not do thee wrong — poor friendless child, 
I will not do thee wrong ! [he staggers off the deck. 



SCENE XI. 

Night — Albert's cabin, a dim lamp is burning — Albert 
appears asleep — a shriek is heard on deck, and a 
heavy plunge into the sea — Albert starts up, 

Oh, gracious heaven, that is the woman's voice ! 

Where is she ? — where am I ? — Ah, I have slept — 

A blood-polluted murderer, I have slept ! 
Enter the captain. 
Albert. What shriek was that? — and where is 

Angela ? 
Cap. Where plummet will not reach her ! 
Albert. Heartless wretch, — 

Dost say she 's dead with such a voice as that ? 

If thou know'st aught of this, by all that's sacred 

Thy life shall answer for 't ! 



THE PIRATE. !>7 

Cap. My hands arc clean 

Of this girl's life !— But listen, and I '11 tell you— 
Your drunken wooing frightened her last night! 
Have your forgot how, in her desperation, 
She stood, her wild hair streaming in the wind, 
And her pale countenance upturned to heaven ? 

Albert. But she is dead ! 

Cap. Well, as she stood at eve 

Stood she at midnight, motionless, yet muttering 
A thousand quick-said prayers, with clasped hands, 
Like some carved image of immortal sorrow ! 

Albert. Cease, thou wilt drive me mad ! 

Cap. The loaded sails 

Dropped momently their heavy beads of dew 
Upon the silent deck, meting out time 
As the clock's ticking ; — still she stood, like death, 
The midnight dew in her black trailing hair, 
And the white moon upon her whiter face ! 

Albert. And I the while was taking senseless sleep ! 

Cap. The drunken watch believed themselves 
alone ; — 
They seized her in the darkness ; — from their grasp 
She sprang into the waves, and sank for ever ! 

Albert. And thou saw'st this, and did not strike 
them dead ! [he rushes out. 

Cap. I '11 let them settle it as they like best. 

H 



98 



THE PIRATE. 



J T was but to know if she were dead or living 
That the poor men approached her ! 

\he goes to an inner cabin. 



SCENE XII. 

Night — tempest — thunder and lightning — the ship drives 
before the storm — Albert's cabin — Albert alone : 

Three days the storm has raged — nor is there yet 

Token of its abatement! All is done 

That skill of man can do to save our lives ; 

The ship is lightened of her heavy lading — 

That cursed freight for which we sold our souls 

Has been cast overboard — yet rages still 

The fury of the tempest. 'T is a sign 

Of heaven's eternal punishment. — O sin, 

How are thy wages death ! — But God is just, 

And hath no mercy on us, who had none ! 

The very sea hath from her jaws cast forth 

The murdered dead — she has made'cause against us ; 

Pale ghastly faces, cresting the fierce waters, 

Keep in the vessel's wake as if in mockery ! 

And groans and cries, and curses dark as hell, 

Howl in the tempest — and that woman's shriek, 

And the wild protestations of the men, 

Are ever in our ears ! The ship is full 



THE PIRATE, 99 

Of terrible phantoms that pass to and fro, 
Keeping their eyes on me — they haunt him not — 
He has no mercy, no compunction either, 
And calmly sleeps as though he had not sinned — 
But if / sleep, in dreams they drag my soul 
With horrible compulsion to the pit ! — 
There, there they stand ! I see them now around me ! 
Oh, fearful spectres, fasten not your eyes 
On me with such a woful meaning ! Hence ! 
Hence ! ye do blast my vision like the lightning ! 
Stand off! stand off! ye do approach too near — 
The air is hot ! I have not space to breathe ! 

[he rushes to the door, the Captain meets him. 
Cap. I heard your voice, you have got company ? 
Albert. Out of my way ! — My blackest curse be 
on thee : 
I am a damned sinner through thy means ! 

Cap. Peace, peace ! your passion overmasters you ! 
Albert. Have I not need to curse thee to thy face ? 
Thou hast brought misery on me ! I am dyed 
Black in eternal shame — the fierce purgation 
Of everlasting fire would cleanse me not ! 

Cap. Come, come, my friend, we 've had too much 
of raving! 
Are we never to meet without these squabblings ? 
I 'm tired of them, and I have tidings for you — - 
The rain has ceased, the tempest is abating ; 
h 2 



100 THE PIRATE. 

The moon is struggling through the broken clouds, 
We shall have calm anon, and gain a harbour. 
Albert. Tempest or calm is all alike to me : 
Harbour I seek not— give annihilation — 
An everlasting hush, and I will bless thee ! 

[he goes out — the Captain follows him. 



SCENE XIII. 

The vessel floating without mast or rudder— famine on 
board — the crew mutinous — Albert and the Captain 
apart from the rest — Albert sits with his head 
resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed as if in 
unconsciousness — a violent struggle is heard on the 
distant part of the deck, and a body falls. 

[Albert. What miserable sound of mortal strife 
Was that I heard e'en now ? 

Cap. Two famished wretches 

Strove for a -mouse, and one hath killed the other — 
And now they fight like tigers for the body ! 

Albert. Oh, horrible! Vengeance is with us now! 
What further consummation can there be ? 

[he advances along the deck with difficulty ; 
the seamen are eagerly stripping the body. 

Albert. My brethren in affliction, sin not thus ; 
Touch not that flesh, lest God abandon you! 



THE PIRATE. 101 

Mate. There is no bread ! — there is no drop of 
water ! 
These cannot speak for thirst — nor shall I long — 
If you have water, give it us ! 

Albert. Alas ! 

I have it not — I shared the last with you ! 

Mate. Then let us have the boat, and save our- 
selves ; — 
Some land is near, for many nights of birds 
Have passed us since the morning. 

Albert, [aside] Still that prayer ! 

Tf they reach any shore, I am undone ! 
But 't is impossible ! — their feeble arms 
Could not sustain the oars — and without compass 
They cannot gain the land — I 'm safe from them ! 
[aloud] Well, take the boat — ye can but die at last ! 
[the boat is launched in silence, and with 
difficulty — they throw in their blankets, 
and all take their seats except the mate. 
Mate. Now, sir, we want a compass— there are two 
Down in the cabin. 

Albert. There is only one, 

And that ye shall not have ! 

Mate. Then be our blood 

Upon your head — and may the fiend keep with you ! 

[they row off in silence. 



102 THE TIRATE. 

SCENE XIV. 

Albert's city — two merchant's on 'Chanye. 

1st Mer. I've seen the men myself, and heard 
their story, 
In number they are seven — a ghastly crew, 
Like walking corpses from a charnel-house ; 
Their lips were black and shrivelled, and their jaws 
Hung like the stiffened jaws of a dead face. 
For thirteen days they had not tasted food ; 
They now are lodged within the hospital ; 
And I have heard their dreadful history, 
More horrible than their condition ! 

2nd Mer. How ? 

Be quick, and tell us how ? 

1st Mer. It doth involve 

The credit of a well esteemed house : 
They are the remnant of a crew that sailed 
With Albert Luberg, on that fatal night 
When, by a sudden tempest wrecked, his ship 
Went down without the harbour. On that night, 
As you perhaps have heard, for it was talked of, 
He joined himself unto a foreign captain, 
And sailed, no one knew whither. 

2nd Mer. And what then ? 

1st Mer. This captain was a pirate, and these men 
Tell such a horrible story of their deeds 
As makes the blood run cold ! 



THE PIRATE. 103 

2nd Mer. But Albert Luberg 

Could not turn pirate ! 'T is a base assertion ! 
These fellows have been mutinous, and now 
Would blast the honour of a worthy man ; 
They are a lying crew — I '11 not believe it ! 

1st Mer. Nay, hear the men yourself! You'll 
not detect 
The semblance of a lie — 't is a calm story ; 
Made, by their separate testimony, sure. 
But here comes one whom I did leave with them, 
Ask him, and he will tell you this, and more. 

3rd Mer. [coming up~\ Well sir, I 've heard this 
doleful story through, 
And fresh particulars which you heard not. 
It is a fearful tale ; and yet is full 
Of a most wholesome lesson, which will preach 
Unto the sinner that the arm of God 
Is still stretched out to punish, let him strive 
Against it as he will — for this poor wretch, 
Though he refused a compass to these men, 
That they might reach no shore to implicate him, 
Shall find his cruel wisdom ineffectual, 
For they were guided by the arm of God 
Over the pathless waters, to this port, 
That so his infamy might be perfected ! 
For them the sea grew calm — and a strong gale 
Impelled them ever forward without oars, 



104 THE PIRATE. 

Which they were all unfit to ply — their sail 
A tattered blanket ! 

2nd Mer. Ah, my heart doth ache 

To think of his poor mother, that good lady 
Who ever lived in blameless reputation ! 
And then her niece, the gentle, orphaned Constance ! 

1st Mer. I know they had misgivings — for his 
mother 
Took to her bed in grief for his departure, 
And Constance hath shunned company since then. 

2nd Mer. Alas, 't will break their hearts, they 
loved him so ! 

4ih Mer. [coming up] I would consult you on 
this dreadful business 
Of Albert Luberg — Were it not most right 
To send a vessel out to meet with him ? 
He cannot be far distant, for these men 
Came hither in five days in their poor boat ! 

3rd Mer. If he were in another hemisphere 
It were but right to follow him, for justice ! 

1st Mer. And is not the great will of God revealed 
In the miraculous saving of these men ? 

4th Mer. We are agreed then ! Let us find a ship 
Fit for this service, lightly built and swift, 
Which may pursue him round the world itself. 

1st and 3rd Mer. 'T is a right judgment ! 

2nd Mer. Ah, poor Madame Luberg ! 

[they all go off together. 



THE PIRATE. 105 

SCENE XV. 

Street — a crowd assembled. 

1st Man. He was brought in this morning. 

2nd Man. Did you see him ! 

1st Man. No, but I saw the wreck he was taken 
from — nothing but a black, weather-beaten hull ; it 
lay like an old boat on the water, you would have 
said it would go to pieces with every wave, and yet 
the timbers were all sound — they say it had not 
sprung aleak, nor would have perished for months. 

3rd Man. And have they got them both ? 

1st Man. Only Luberg ; the other got off, nobody 
knows how, — they say he is the devil ! 

2nd Man. Lord have mercy on us ! 

[the crowd increases. 

4th Man. Well, I 've seen him — and I wish I had 
never set eyes on him ! Oh, he's a bad man ! he 
has a horrid look — and I remember him a proper 
young man, and the handsomest that went out of 
harbour ! 

5th Man. But he was dying of hunger when 
they picked him from the wreck — they say a child 
would outweigh him ! poor fellow ! 

6th Man. Do you pity him, a bloody pirate ! 

5th Man. Oh but you havn't seen his face as I 



106 THE PIRATE. 

have ! He is like a withered old man, and has such 
a look of misery ! God help him ! 

1st Man. And what 's to be done with him ? 

6ih Man. They say he will be hung in irons on 
the wreck, and then all will be sunk together ! 

7 th Man. 'T is no more than he deserves ! 

5th Man. If all had their deserts, who would 
escape the gallows ? 

3rd Man. Let 's go look at the wreck. 

Several. Let 's go ! [they disperse. 



SCENE XVI. 

A small, dark cell in a prison — Albert heavily ironed, 
is seated upon straw; he is haggard and wild in 
appearance, with his eyes cast down as if stupijied. 
The door slowly opens, and Constance in deep 
mourning, enters ; she seats herself on a bench near 
him, looks on him in silence and weeps ; Albert slowly 
raises his head, and gazes at her for some time 
before he appears to recognize her. 

Albert. I dare not speak the name, but is it thou ? 
Cons. Oh Albert, Albert ! 

Albert. Canst thou speak my name ? 

Do ye not curse me, thou and my poor mother ? 

[lie bows his head to his knees, and weeps 
bitterly. 



THE PIRATE. 107 

Cons, [kneeling beside hint] Oh God ! who art a 
father to the afflicted, 
Who art a fount of Mercy — look on him ! 
Pity and pardon him, and give him peace. 
Oh Christ ! who in thine hour of mighty woe, 
Didst comfort the poor thief upon the cross, 
Bless the bowed sinner in his prison-house ! 

Albert. Thou angel of sweet mercy ! woe is me ! 
Sorrow hath left its trace upon thy cheek — 
I am a cursed spoiler, who was born 
To wring the hearts that loved me ! — oh my mother ! 
My gracious mother ! is she changed as thou ? 

Cons. Thy mother! ask not, Albert, of thy mother. 

Albert. Ah, she does not forgive me ! nor will God ! 

Cons. Albert, thy mother's dead — and her last 
words 
Were prayers for thee ! 

Albert. Then I have killed my mother ! 

Oh blood ! blood, blood ! will my poor soul be never 
Freed from the curse of blood ! 

Cons, [taking his hand] Albert, be calm, 

'T was by the will of God, that that dear saint 
Went to her blessed rest — I mourn her not — 
I do rejoice in her eternal peace ! 

Albert, [looking on the hand of Constance] I dare 
not press it to my longing lips — 



108 THE PIRATE* 

There is pollution on them — they have sworn 

False oaths — they have by cruel, flattering lies, 

Lured to destruction one as true as thou ! 

There is a gentle, a meek-hearted maiden 

Burning her nightly beacon of sweet woods 

Upon the peak of a fair, palmy isle, 

To guide me o'er the waters ! long ere this 

She must have pined, and pined — -and she will die 

Heart-broken ! Constance, do not look on me — 

For thou wilt curse me, hate me, spurn me from thee. 

I am a monster, dost thou fear me not ? 

Have they not told thee of my cruel sins ? 

Cons. Albert, I fear thee not — I mourn for thee. 
1 knew that thou hadst sinned, but I forgave thee ! 
May God forgive thee, and support that maiden ! 
Albert. Thou art not woman, Constance, thou art 
angel ! 
Ah, there were days when we two sate together, 
Glad, innocent spirits ; when from the same prayer- 
book 
We made the same responses, and our eyes 
Traversed the page together, save when mine 
Glanced from the book upon thy gentle cheek, 
And watched it crimson, conscious of my gaze ! 
Ah, I was guiltless then ! and then my mother 
Gave me the holy book to read to her, 
Eve after eve. — Oh then I loved that book, 



THE PIRATE. 109 

And holy things — then heaven seemed just before me, 
Death an immeasurable distance oft" ! 
Now death stares in my face — a horrid death ! 
And heaven — oh, I am damned ! I have no hope ! 
Cons. Say not, dear Albert, that thou hast no 

hope ! 
Albert. I have no hope — I tell thee, I have none ! 
It were abusing mercy to extend it 
To such a wretch as I ! 

Cons. But cry to God 

For pardon, for repentance, he will hear thee ! 

Albert. I cannot pray — my tongue has cursed so 
long 
I have forgot the words men use in prayer ! 

Cons. Dear Albert, now I fear thee — thou art 
frantic ! [she rises. 

Albert. Nay, leave me not ! Oh do not, do not 
leave me ! 
When we part here, we ne'er shall meet again — 
That great impassable gulf will lie between us ! 

Cons. Oh Albert, promise me to pray to God- 
Christ died, thou know'st, for sinners! 

t Albert. My good angel, 

Would that my judge were pitiful as thou ! 

[a rattling of keys is heard outside the 
door, it opens, and the gaoler enters. 



110 THE PIRATE. 

Gao. The chaplain is without, and he would pray- 
Yet once more with the prisoner. 

The chaplain enters. 

Cons, to Albert. Now, now farewell ! 

And may Almighty God look down and bless thee ! 
Albert, [wildly'] Farewell, farewell ! we shall meet 
never more ! 
It is a farewell for eternity ! 

[Constance, overcome by her feelings, is 
supported out by the chaplain. 



Ill 



Achzib made his escape from the pirate-ship in 
some way which eluded all detection. He did not, 
however, think it expedient to enter again the sea- 
port ; and as all places were alike to him, with this 
exception, he resigned himself to chance, and took 
up his abode in the first considerable city he came to. 
He was so extravagantly elated with his success, 
that he carried himself with so self-satisfied an air 
as to attract the notice of every one. Some said he 
was newly come into possession of a great fortune, 
and that money, and the importance it gained for 
him, were so novel as to have turned his head; 
some said he was the little-great man of a small town, 
where his consequential airs were mistaken for marks 
of real greatness ; — others said he was a travelling 
doctor, who had just taken out a new patent ; — ■ 
while others took him for a marvellously wise philo- 
sopher, who, thinking of any thing rather than him- 



11.2 

self, had acquired this ridiculous carriage in sheer 
absence of mind ; — and others again, supposed him 
to be a poet, inflated with the success of a new 
poem. 

Achzib, in the meantime, thinking he had done 
enough for the present, determined to have an interval 
of rest. He accordingly took a large house, furnished 
it sumptuously, and began in reality to be looked 
upon as somebody. He did not, it is true, hold 
mnch intercourse with the citizens, though he was a 
most munificent patron of boxers, wrestlers, and all 
kind of prize-fighters and gamblers. He occasionally 
went on 'Change too, and circulated now and then 
some spurious lie or other ; which, deranging all 
money business, while it made the fortunes of a few, 
was the ruin of many. He had considerable dealings 
also with the usurers ; and keeping a pack of hounds 
and a noble stud of horses, found occupation enough 
both for day and night. To diversify his employ- 
ments he dabbled in judicial astrology, and the 
favourite pursuits of the old alchemists. He re- 
peatedly asserted that he had mixed the Elixir 
Vitse, and also that he could compound the Philo- 
sopher's-stone. They who heard this, had an easy 
way of accounting for the money that he appeared 
always to have at command; but he himself well 
knew that every stiver was drawn from the bags of 



113 

the usurer, though never destined to find their way 
back again. 

The life Achzib led, was much to his mind ; he 
told lies with the most truthful face in the world, and 
cheated in so gentlemanly a style, that he might 
perhaps have maintained this life much longer, had 
he not been accidentally tempted to his fourth trial. 

He was on the Prada, or place of public resort, 
and seeing two grave persons in deep discourse to- 
gether, and who seemed unconscious of all that 
surrounded them, he took a seat near, hoping to hear 
some secret worth knowing or telling. Their con- 
versation, however, was entirely of a moral or 
religious nature ; and Achzib would soon have been 
weary of it, had they not branched off to the subject 
of temptation, and the habits of mind which render 
a man peculiarly assailable by it. 

" For instance," said the one, " old age, if beset 
by temptation, could but inadequately resist it, for 
the mind becomes enfeebled with the body. Youth 
may be inexperienced and volatile ; middle age 
engrossed by the world and its pursuits; but is it not 
the noble enthusiasm of the one, and the severe 
uprightness of the other which makes them often 
superior to their trials ; and which of these does the 
weakness and despondency of old age possess V 

" But," rejoined the other. " the passions have 
i 



114 

ceased to stimulate in old age. Ambition, love, or 
avarice, are the temptations of earlier life. Men do 
not become suddenly vicious in old age, for the 
habits of mind and body in men become part and 
parcel of themselves ; and, if through life these have 
been regulated by principle, I say not religion, they 
will preserve age, if it were assailed by temptation, 
as effectually as the higher motives of more vigor- 
ous life." 

" True," replied the first speaker, " if the trial 
came only through the medium of the passions ; but 
though a man may have arrived at old age unpol- 
luted by outward sins, yet the temper of his mind 
may be the very opposite of virtue. He may doubt 
the goodness of God, though his life has been one 
series of mercies ; he may be obstinately uncheered 
by his love, and unawakened by his daily Providence. 
A murmuring, morbid doubting of God's goodness is 
the peculiar weakness of such a mind — and the 
human being who can have passed through life, and 
at last retains such a spirit, is neither guiltless of sin, 
nor unassailable by temptation." 

" But such a case," replied the other, " is ex- 
tremely rare. Old age finds a natural aliment in 
religion ; and as its ties to the earth are sundered, 
the very necessities of its nature unite it more closely 
with heaven." 



115 

" Such a case," persisted his friend, "may be rare, 
but alas, it is not beyond the range of human ex- 
perience ; and the peculiar prayer of such a spirit 
should be, 'lead me not into temptation !' " 

" Oh, but," exclaimed the other, with holy enthu- 
siasm, " God, who is boundless and long-suffering 
in mercy, and who tempers the wind to the shorn 
lamb, will keep such feeble spirit from trial beyond 
his strength ; or in his loving-kindness will extend 
the hand of his mercy to save him, even as the 
sinking apostle was sustained when his faith failed 
him upon the waters !" 

Achzib rose up before the conclusion of this last 
observation ; taking great praise to himself that wise 
men, such as he, gathered up their advantage from 
even the casual conversation of two strangers. 



THE OLD MAN. 



THE OLD MAN. 



PERSONS. 

OLD MAN. 

MARGARET, HIS DAUGHTER. 

UGOLIN, THE SUITOR OF MARGARET. 

ACHZIB, A STRANGER. 



SCENE I. 

A small house just without the gate of the city — an 
old and much enfeebled paralytic, sitting by his door 
in the sun. 

Old Man. Supported by Eternal Truth, 
Nature is in perpetual youth ; 
As at the first, her flowers unfold, 

And her fruits ripen in the sun, 

And the rich year its course doth run ; 
For nature never groweth old ! 
A thousand generations back 

Yon glorious sun looked not more bright, 
Nor kept the moon her silent track 

More truly through the realms of night ! 
Oh, nature never groweth old, 
The Eternal arm doth her uphold ! 



120 THE OLD MAN. 

She droopeth not, doth not decay ; 

Is beautiful as on the day 

When the strong morning-stars poured out 

Their hymn of triumph at the birth, 

Of the young, undeclining earth, 
And all the sons of God did shout 
In their immortal joy to see 
It bound into immensity ! 
But man, for whom the earth was made, 
A feeble worm, doth droop and fade ! 
Those fleecy clouds, like hills of heaven, 
To them is constant beauty given ; 
This little flower which at my feet 
Springs up, is beautiful and sweet — 
A thousand years, and this poor flower 
Will be the same as at this hour ! 
But man, who as a lord is placed 

Amid creation, what is he ? 
A thing whose beauty is defaced 

By age, by toil, by misery ! 
Wherefore that proud intelligence ; 
That discontented, reasoning sense 
Which keeps him restless, and doth send 

His struggling thought through depth and height; 
Which makes him strive to comprehend 

The Eternal and the Infinite ? 



THE OLD MAN. 121 

Wherefore this immaterial being 

Which with the body is at strife ; 

This powerful pulse of inward life, 
WTiich ever feeling, hearing, seeing, 

Finds nothing that can satisfy? 
Better methinks, the eagle's wing, 
Which bears it where its soul would spring, 

Up to the illimitable sky ! 
Better the desert- creature's might, 
That makes its life a strong delight, 
Than this unquiet bosom-guest 
That fills man's being with unrest ! 
Time was, my life was bright as theirs ; 

Time was, my spirit had no cloud — 

But age the buoyant frame has bowed, + 
And gloomed my soul with many cares ! 
Oh youth, how I look back to thee, 

As to an Eden I have lost ; 
Thy beauty ever haunteth me 

As an unquiet, lovely ghost, 
Which in my arms I would enfold, 
But thou elud'st my feeble hold ! 
But hark ! my daughter singeth now ! 

Sweet words are ever on her tongue, 
And a glad kindness lights her brow : 

No wonder is it, she is young ! 

[the sound of a wheel is heard within, 
and a voice singing : 



122 THE OLD MAN. 

There is a land where beauty cannot fade, 

Nor sorrow dim the eye ; 
Where true-love shall not droop nor be dismayed, 

And none shall ever die ! 

Where is that land, oh where ? 

For I would hasten there ! 

Tell me, — I fain would go, 
For I am wearied with a heavy woe ! 
The beautiful have left me all alone ; 
The true, the tender, from my path are gone ! 

Oh guide me with thy hand, 

If thou dost know that land, 
For I am burthened with oppressive care, 
And I am weak and fearful with despair ! 

Where is it ? tell me where ? 
Thou that art kind and gentle, tell me where? 

Friend, thou must trust in Him who trod before 

The desolate paths of life ; 
Must bear in meekness as he meekly bore 

Sorrow, and pain, and strife ! 

Think how the son of God 

These thorny paths hath trod; 

Think how he longed to go, 
Yet tarried out for thee the appointed woe : 
Think of his weariness in places dim, 
When no man comforted nor cared for him ! 



THE OLD MAN. 123 

Think of the blood-like sweat 

With which his brow was wet, 
Yet how he prayed, unaided and alone, 
In that great agony, " Thy will be done !" 

Friend, do not thou despair, 
Christ from his heaven of heavens will hear thy 
prayer ! 

Old Man. My daughter, thou hast brought me 
back, 

For I have erred ; my soul is weak, 
It ever leaves the righteous track, 

Some dangerous, darker path to seek ! 
God pardon me if I have sinned ! 

But my impatient soul doth long 
To leave this weary flesh behind, 

And be once more the young, the strong ! 
And when I see, un tired, unspent, 

How nature keeps her loveliness, 
Like some strong life omnipotent, 

I do abhor my feebleness ; 
And marvel whence it is man's frame, 

That shrines a spirit strong and bold, 
Which hath a proud, immortal aim, 

Becomes so bowed and feebly old ; 
Why he keeps not his manhood's strength 

Maturely stately, filled with grace, 
And rich in knowledge, till at length 

He goes to his appointed place ; 



124 THE OLD MAN. 

Can God delight or beauty see 

In age's dark infirmity ? 
Take, take me hence ! I am grown weary ! 
Life is a prison, dark and dreary ! 
Oh that my soul could soar away 
Up to the imperishable day, 

And drink at ever-living rills, 
And cast behind this weary clay, 

This life of never-ending ills ! 

But who comes here ? I know him not, 

Or if I did, I have forgot ; 

My senses are so feeble grown, 

I know not now whom I have known ! 



Enter a stranger. 

Strang. Friend, I would take a seat by you awhile, 
I 'm weary with the travel of to-day. 

Old Man. What, are you weary with the 
journeying 
Of one short day ! Are you not hale and strong ? 
Methinks you scarcely are past middle life — 
When I was your age, I was never weary ! 

Strang. I do believe you, friend : I can see traces 
Of vigour that has been ; and I have heard 
Of your herculean strength, long years ago. 



THE OLD MAN. 125 

Old Man. Ay sir, I have been young, but now 
am old ! 

Strang. There was no wrestler like you, no strong 
swimmer 
Could breast the billows with you ; you could run 
Up to the mountain summit like the goat, 
Bounding from crag to crag — you followed then 
The shepherd's healthful calling, and were known 
Both near and far, as a bold mountaineer. 

Old Man. You had not knowledge of me in my 
youth ? 

Strang. No, but I oft have heard you spoken of, 
As so excelling in athletic sports 
Men made a proverb of you ; afterward, 
You served your country in its bloody wars, 
And seconding your valour by your arm, 
Did miracles of bravery. 

Old Man. All is over ! 

Old age has crippled me. I am sunk down 
Into the feeble, wretched thing you see ! 
Why was I not cut down in that strong prime ? 
I loathe this weary wasting, day by day — 
I am a load on others as myself! 

Strang. Age, my good friend, is dark, dark and 
unlovely : 
'T is no new truth discovered yesterday ! 

Old Man. I see the young men glorying in their 
strength ; 



126 THE OLD MAN. 

I see the maidens in their graceful beauty, 
And my soul dies within me at the thought 
That they must fade, and wither, and bow down, 
Like me, beneath the burthen of old age ! 

Strang. It is a gloomy lot that man is born to ! 
God deals not kindly in afflicting thus ; 
There can be no equivalent for age ; 
Would not the monarch, stricken by the weight 
Of four- score years and their infirmities, 
Buy youth from the poor peasant at the price 
Of twenty kingdoms ? Life should have been given 
Methinks, exempt from miserable decay ; 
Enough that we must lay it down at last. — 
But you are silent, friend ! Have I not struck 
Into the very current of your thoughts? 

Old Man. I know not if such thoughts be wise 
and good ; — 
My flesh is weak, and doth so warp my spirit, 
That I have murmured thus ; — but God is wise ! 
I know that he afflicts us for our good. 
And this I know, that my Redeemer liveth ; 
And though the worm this body shall devour, 
Mine eyes shall yet behold Him when this mortal 
Shall have put on its immortality ! 
Lord, I believe — help thou mine unbelief! 

Strang. Why, what an inconsistency is man ! 
This moment you were murmuring — now you take 
Another kind of language, altogether! 



THE OLD MAN. 127 

Old Man. I told you I was weak ! I do abhor 
Old age, which so enfeebles and chains down 
My spirit to this miserable matter. 
But I doubt not that God is strong to save ; 
And if I keep my trust in him unbroken, 
He, after death, will crown me as a star, 
With an imperishable youth and glory! 
But I am weak, and age doth wake in me 
A spirit of impatience which is sin ! 

Strang. This fearful spirit of despondency 
Which whispers "this is sin, — and this — and this!" 
Is part of the infirmity of age ; 
Does not the young man, vigorous in his body, 
Think, speak, and act without such qualms of fear ? 
You, in the free exuberance of youth 
Went on rejoicing, like a creature filled 
With immortality of strength and beauty ; 
But as the body, so the spirit weakens, 
And thus becomes a feeble, timid thing ! 

Old Man. I know it ! — I have known it al] too 
long ! 

Strang. Seven years you 've been in this most sad 
condition 

Old Man. I have — and I was threescore years and 
ten 
When this infirmity first fell upon me. 



128 



THE OLD MAN. 



Strang. It is a great age, seventy years and seven; 
And seven years more you may remain on earth ! 

Old Man. Oh, Heaven forbid, that I for seven years 
more 
Should drag on this poor body ! — yet my life 
Is crowned with mercies still ! 

Strang. How so, my friend? 

I did suppose you had no mercies left, 
I thought that they and youth all went together. 

Old Man. I have a child, — the child of my old age. 
My sons went to the dust in their bright youth — 
Daughters I had — but they too were, and are not ! 
But God was pleased to spare unto my age 
This youngest born — this dutiful, dear child, 
Who doth so tend my miserable decay, 
Winning a decent livelihood by toil ! 

Strang. I 've seen her, she is fair to look upon : 
'T is much she hath not left you for a husband ! 

Old Man. Oh, you know not my daughter to speak 
thus ! 
Is she not dutiful ? — She hath put off 
Year after year, the day of her espousals, 
That she might tend on my decrepitude ! 

Strang. I do bethink me now — she is betrothed 
To the young pastor of a mountain people ; 
I 've heard it spoken of — I Ve seen him too ; 
He is a pale and melancholy man, 



THE OLD MAN. 129 

Who reads his Bible, and makes gloomy hymns — 
Your daughter often sings them to her wheel. 

Old Man, Ah, me ! his crossed affection clouds 
his spirit, 
And doth impair his health, not over strong ! 
And thus I know that while my life endures 
I must divide two loving, tender hearts ! 
But if you heard him pouring forth his faith, 
His happy, Christian faith, in burning words, 
And saw his cheerful life, you would not say 
He was a melancholy man ! 

Strang, Well, well, 

I do not doubt the man is good and kind, 
And in your presence wears a happy face. 
But I have seen him in his mountain-valley, 
When the dark fit is on him, sad enough ! 

Old Man, God help me ! I have sundered them 
too long! 

Strang, True, it must ever wound a generous 
nature 
To know it is a bar to other's bliss ! — 
But see, the evening cometh down apace, 
I must depart — but if you will permit me, 
Since I have business which within the eity 
Will keep me for a season, I will come 
And have some profitable talk with you ; 
For with old age is wisdom — and instruction 
With length of days ; — thus said the wise of yore. 

K 



130 THE OLD MAN. 

Old Man, Come you, and welcome; — I but rarely 
see 
The face of any one, for few prefer 
The converse of the old — they say forsooth, 
His faculties are darkened with his years ; 
What boots it talking to so old a man ! 

Strang, Good night, my venerable friend, — be 
sure 
I hold it as a privilege to talk 
With an experienced, ancient man like you. 

[he goes. 

Old Man, A proper cordial spirit ! a prime spirit ! 
He must have aged parents whom he serves 
With dutiful respect, and my grey hairs 
Are reverenced for their sakes ! So was youth taught 
When I was young ; we scoffed not at the old, 
Nor held them drivellers, as youth does now ; 
This generation is corrupt, and lax 
In good morality ; — -saving my daughter 
And Ugolin, none reverence my years. 
Alas, the thought of them brings bitter pangs 
Across my soul! — This man knows Ugolin, 
And saith he has his melancholy hours — 
Perchance my cheerful daughter has hers too ! — 
Too long I 've sundered them, for that they mourn : 
What do I know but 'neath this shew of duty 
They wish me dead ! — Ah, no ! it is not so ; 
Shame on myself for harbouring such a thought ! 



THE OLD MAN. 131 

MARGARET CODieS Ollt. 

Marg. Father, the sun is sinking 'neath the boughs 
Of yonder lime — and see, the gilded dome 
Within the city now is lighted up ; — 
'T is late, my father, and the evening air 
Will chill thy frame ! — Give me thy hand, dear 

father, 
And lean on me, I will support thee in. 

Old Man. Nay, 't is not chill ! these summer eves 
are warm ; 
Let me enjoy the sun while yet I can. 
Thou 'rt young — thou 'It live to feel it many years — 
Sit down beside me, child ! 

Marg. Thou hadst a guest 

Holding long converse with thee. I was glad, 
For there is little to divert thy thoughts 
In this dull place — no horsemen pass this way ; 
And since the road was cut beneath the mountain, 
But rarely a foot-traveller. Whence came he ? 
Was he some scholar travelling in these parts- — 
Or came he from the city ? 

Old Man. I scarce know ; 

Something he said of dwelling in the city, 
But what, I have forgot ; my memory fails me, 
I am a weak old man ! But sing to me 
Some comfortable hymn — I ever loved 
Music at sunset in my better days. 

k 2 



132 THE OLD MAN. 

Margaret sings 

Oli Lord ! before thy glorious face 

My human soul I will abase ; 

Nor pride myself because I know 

The wonders of the earth and skies ! 

When the stars set, and when they rise ; 
And when the little flower doth blow, 
And seasons come and go ! 



Oh, how can man himself present 
Before thee, the Omnipotent, 

The Omnipresent Deity, 
And not abhor the daring pride 
Which his poor soul had magnified ; 

And not shrink back, appalled to see 

How far he is from thee ! 



Yet, Source of love, and life and light, 
The one existence — Infinite ! 

Thou dost regard thy creature man ; 
With mercies dost enrich his lot ! 
Hast blessed him though he knew it not, 

Prom the first hour his life began, 

To its remotest span ! 



THE OLD MAN. 133 

Oh God ! I will not praise thee most 

For that which makes man's proudest boast — 

Power, grandeur, or unshackled will — 
But to thy goodness will I raise 
My most triumphant song of praise, 

And cast myself in every ill 

Upon thy mercy still ! 

Old Man. 'T is a sweet hymn, a comfortable hymn ! 
My daughter, God is good, though man is weak, 
And doubteth of his providence ! 

Marg. He is — 

He is a God of mercy more than judgment ! — 
But hark ! those are the sounds of eventide ; 
The booming of the beetle, and the cry, 
Shrill as a reed-pipe, of the little bat ; 
And the low city-hum, like swarming bees ; 
And the small water- fall, I hear them now : 
These mark the closing eve : now come within, 
I have your supper ready, and will read 
To you awhile in some religious book. 

Old Man, Well, well — I am but like the ancient 
servant 
Of our good Lord, I do put forth my hand 
And others gird and lead me where I would not ! 

[they go in. 



134 THE OLD MAK. 

SCENE II. 

Night-fall — a room in the cottage. In the far part, 
the old Mans bed, with the curtains drawn round it. 
— Margaret sits within a screen at her work ; a 
small lamp is burning beside her. 

Marg. V 11 sing a hymn, it oft hath cheered his 
spirit 
In its disquietude — Oh Lord forgive him, 
If he say aught injurious of thy mercy — 
He is a weak, old man ! [she sings. 

Bowed 'neath the load of human ill, 
Our spirits droop, and are dismayed ; 
Oh Thou, that saidest ' peace, be still,' 
To the wild sea, and wast obeyed, 
Speak comfortable words of peace, 
And bid the spirit's tumult cease ! 

We ask not length of days, nor ease, 
Nor gold ; but, for thy mercy's sake, 
Give us thy joy, surpassing these, 
Which the world gives not, nor can take ; 
And count it not for sin that we 
At times despond, or turn from thee ! 

Enter ugolin, softly. 
Vgo. How is thy father, Margaret ? does he sleep ? 



THE OLD MAN. 135 

Marg. Methinks he does ; 1 have not heard him 
move 
For half an hour. 

Ugo. Thou lookest sad, my love, 

Hast thought my tarriance long ? I would have sped 
To thee ere sunset, but I stayed to comfort 
A mother in affliction ; a poor neighbour ; 
Wife of the fisherman, whose son hath fallen 
Into the lake, and was brought home a corpse ! 
A worthy son, the comfort of the house. 

Marg. Alas, poor soul ! it is a great affliction ! 
Ah Ugolin, this is a world of sorrow, 
And, saving for the hope the Christian bears 
In his dear faith, a dark and joyless world ! 

Ugo. It is not oft thy spirit is o'ercast — 
I see thee ever as a gentle star, 
Shedding kind, cheering influence ! 

Marg. Of late 

My spirit hath grown sadder, and I ponder 
Upon the many ills which flesh is heir to ; 
Sickness and death — the falling off of friends ; 
Blightings of hope ; and of the desolation 
Sin brings upon the heart as on the home — 
And hearing now of this poor woman's grief, 
And of her brave boy's death, my soul is saddened ; 
Besides, my father's mood doth frighten me ; 
Heaven grant his soul's impatience be not sin ! 



136 THE OLD MAN. 

He almost curses life, so does he long 
To pass away in death, which he conceives 
The portal of immortal youth and joy. 
Never did aged man abhor his years 
Like my poor father ! 'T is, I must believe, 
Only the weakness of a feeble spirit, 
Bowed down beneath his threescore years and ten ! 
Ugo. Margaret, thou hast performed a daughter's 

part ; 
I did allow thy father's claim to thee, — 
Now list to mine. Do thou make him my father, 
And let him dwell with us ; we '11 comfort him — 
Our bliss will reconcile him to his life ! 

Marg. Alas, thou know'st he will not leave this 

roof! 
Sorrow and love have bound him to these walls ; 
He 'd die if we remove him ; and thy duties, 
As the good pastor of a worthy flock, 
Bind thee unto thy mountains ! Ugolin, 
Could I believe this weary waiting for me — 
This seven years' tarriance on a daughter's duty, 
Fretted thee with impatience, I would yield 
Thee back thy faith, and give thee liberty 
To choose elsewhere ; but I have known thee well, 
Have known thy constancy, thy acquiescence 
With the great will of God, howe'er unpleasing 
To our poor souls ; so let us still perform 



THE OLD MAN. 137 

Our separate duties ! When my father needs 
My care no longer, 't will be a great joy 
To have performed my duty unto him ; 
And all the good, life has in store for us, 
Will come with tenfold blessing ! 

Ugo. Dearest love, 

I thank thee for the justice thou hast done me — 
But let me have my will, and to thy father 
Speak once more on this point ! If he refuse, 
As he before has done, I '11 say no more ! 

Old Man. Margaret ! my daughter Margaret ! 

Marg. [drawing aside the curtains] Yes, dear 
father, 
What dost thou need ? 

Old Man. I thought I heard him speak, 

Is he still here ? 

Marg. He is, shall he come to thee ? 

Old Man. No, no, — I tell thee no ! dear daughter 
no ! 
I saw him in my dream, and when I woke 
1 heard him speak with thee : let him go hence ! 

Marg. Dear father, thou art dreaming still, be 
sure ! 
Thou art not speaking of good Ugolin — 
It was his voice thou heard' st! 

Old Man. Good Ugolin ! 

Ay, ay, perchance it might be Ugolin ! 



138 THE OLD MAN. 

I was in dreams — I thought it was the man 
Who did converse with me beside the door ; 
It was a dream — a strange, unpleasing dream. 
But go, my child, — it only was a dream, 
For rarely dost thou see poor Ugolin ; 
Yet ere thou go, smoothen my pillow for me ! 

[Margaret adjusts the pillow, and draws 
the curtains. 

Ugo. Thy father is not well, dear Margaret, 
His sleep is sore disturbed. 

Marg. 'T was but a dream ; 

There came a stranger and conversed with him 
An hour ere sunset, and he sees so rarely 
The face of man, that it becomes a terror 
To him in sleep ; besides, his mind was burthened 
Before he went to rest. \_a bell tolls the hour. 

Ugo. The time wears on ; — 

I must not tarry longer, or the hour 
Will be past midnight ere I reach my home. 
I will be here to-morrow ere the sun set. 
Sweet rest to thee, my Margaret, and good dreams, 
And to the poor old man ! [he embraces her. 

Marg. Farewell, good Ugolin ! [he goes out. 

[Margaret fastens the door ; then, after 
listening a few minutes by her father's 
bed, she retires to her own chamber. 



THE OLD MAN. 139 

SCENE III. 

Noon of the next day — the saloon of a house in the 
city, opening to a green on which young men arc 
engaged in athletic sports — the old Man sits in a 
large chair looking on ; the Stranger stands beside 
him. 

Strang. Nay, nay, you know it was with your 
consent 
I brought you here. The litter was so easy, 
The day so warm, the gale so soft and low, 
You did yourself confess the journey pleasant ; 
Confessed that a new life refreshed your limbs ; 
Yet now you murmur, and uneasy thoughts 
Disquiet you ! 

Old Man. When the poor flesh is weak, 
So is the spirit. 

Strang. True, my ancient friend ! 

But let us now regard the youths before us ; 
Behold their manly forms, their graceful limbs, 
Supple, yet full of force Herculean. 
Look at their short, curled hair ; their features' play ; 
Their well-set, noble heads ; their shoulders broad ; 
Their well-compacted frames, that so unite 
Beauty and strength together ! Such is youth. 

Old Man. I once was such as they. 

Strang. Look at that boy, 



140 THE OLD MAN. 

Throwing the classic discus ! such as he 

The old Greek sculptors loved ; look at his skill, 

How far, how true he hurls ! 

Old Man. When I was young 

I threw it better far ! Oh for the years 
That now are distanced by decrepitude ! 

Strang. Look at the slingers yonder ; how they 
mark 
At yon small target ! 

Old Man. [attempting to rise] Give me here a 
sling ; 
I will excel them all ! 

Strang, [supporting him] You shall, my friend ! 
[To one of the youths.] Give here a sling, good 

Decius ; here you see 
A master of the art ; make way for him ! 

[the Old Man takes the sling, but attempt- 
ing to throw, his arm drops powerless. 
The youths turn away and laugh. 
Old Man. Curse on this arm ! am I a laughing- 
stock ? 
Let me go hence, I am an aged fool ! 
Yet that I might but only shame those scoffers 
I 'd yield my hope in heaven ! 

Strang, [reconducting him to his seat] My friend, 
you shall ! 
Vain-glorious fools ! to laugh the old to scorn. 



THE OLD MAN. 141 

I told you I was skilled in medicines : 
The secret virtues of all plants and stones, 
And earths medicinal, are known to me ; 
And hence I have concocted a strong draught 
Of wondrous power — it is the Elixir Vitae, 
For which the wise of every age have sought ! 

[he presents a small flash. 
Drink this, my friend, and vigorous life shall run 
Throughout your frame ; you shall be young anon ; 
You shall be even as these ; and more than these ! 
Old Man. Give me the flask ! I '11 shame the in- 
solent : 
I will outsling those mockers ! 

[he takes it eagerly, then pauses as if 
deliberating ; smells at it, and looks at 
it between his eye and the light. 
Strang. Drink, my friend. 

Old Man. Said'st thou it would restore my vanished 

youth ? 
Strang. Yes, yes ! will give thee youth, and strength 
and beauty — 
Will give thee youth which is imperishable ! 

Old Man. And I shall live, enjoying life on earth ? 
Strang. Yes, wilt enjoy upon this glorious earth 
All that the young desire ! 

Old Man. [giving it back^\ I '11 drink it not ! 
I '11 none of it — it is an evil thing. 



142 THE OLD MAN. 

Strang, What, to be such as these, an evil thing ! 
Did they not laugh at thee, and mock thine age ? 

Old Man. Ay, what is youth but folly? Now I see 
The sinfulness of my unholy wishes : 
I thank thee, God, that thou hast kept my soul 
From this great snare ! Oh, take me, take me hence, 
A feeble man, I am not of your sort ! 

Strang, [aside] A curse upon thee, and thy feeble- 
ness, [he speaks to four of the young men. 
My friend, the litter will be here anon ; 
These will conduct thee safely to thy daughter : 
Give me thy hand, old friend, I farh would serve thee. 

Old Man. Let me go home : I am a weak old man. 
[the four youths accompany him out. 

Strang. A weak old man ! a weak old whining fool ! 
If pain and hunger could have made him mine, 
He should not thus have left me ; but I know 
The soul is only strengthened by oppression. 
I still will speak him fair — will natter him, 
And stir up that impatient soul of his, 
Till his own act shall make him mine for ever. 
Now let him rest awhile, and bask i' the sun, 
Like other feeble things ; for yet seven days 
I '11 leave him to himself, — and then, old man, 
We '11 have a strift for it. [he goes off. 



THE OLD MAN. 143 



SCENE IV. 



Evening. The Old Man sitting in his chair within 
his own door — he appears very ill — his daughter 
supports him. 

Old Man. Oh what an icy pang shoots through 
my frame ; 
God help the feeble who do suffer thus ! 

Marg. Some woe hath fallen on thee in the city ; 
Tell me, and who that stranger was, dear father. 

Old Man. Oh, ask me not of aught ; I am afflicted — 
Body and mind, I am afflicted sore ! 

Marg. Call upon God, my father, he will help 
thee. [Ugolin comes up. 

Ugo. My good old friend, how does it fare with 
you? 

Old Man. My son, I am afflicted — mind and body 
Are suffering now together ! 

Ugo. [to Marg.~\ What means he ? 

Marg. I do not know : the guest of yesterday 
Seduced him to the city ; and perchance 
The crowd, the noise, the newness of the scene 
Have overcome his strength ; or else perchance 
He saw some scene of riot or distress 
Which thus hath wrought upon his feebleness. 



144 THE OLD MAN. 

Ugo. Father, shall we support thee to thy bed, 
And read to thee, and comfort thee with prayer ? 
Old Man. Ay, let me to my bed, that I may die ! 

[they support him in. 



SCENE V. 

Midnight. The Old Man lying on his bed — Ugolin 
and Margaret sit beside him — Margaret reads. 

" For this corruptible must put on incorruption, 
and this mortal must put on immortality ; 

So when this corruptible shall have put on incor- 
ruption, and this mortal shall have put on immor- 
tality, 

Then shall be brought to pass the saying which is 
written, Death is swallowed up in victory. 

Oh Death, where is thy sting ? O Grave, where is 
thy victory ? 

The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is 
the law. 

But thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory 

through our Lord Jesus Christ." 

[she closes the book. 

Old Man. The sting of death is sin ! and over 

death ; 

'T is the Lord Jesus Christ gives us victory ! 



THE OLD MAN. 145 

Thank thee, my daughter ; there is holy comfort 
In those few words — 

But think' st thou Ugolin 
Will visit us to-night ? I fain would have 
His prayers before I die, 

Marg. He is beside thee ; 

Father, he is beside thee, even now. 

Ugo. My father, may the God of peace be with 
thee ! 

Old Man. [looking earnestly at him] Yes, thou art 
here, good Ugolin — good Ugolin ! 
And thou art good : dear child, give me thy hand. 
My children, I for many years have hung 
Like a dark cloud above your true affection ; 
But I shall pass away, and Heaven will crown 
Your life with a long sunshine. 

Marg. Dear, dear father, 

Take not a thought for us ; God has been good ! 
Thy life has been our blessing. 

Old Man. Yes, my child, 

How truly dost thou say that God is good. 
I know that he is good ; but my weak faith 
Has failed my latter days. I have repined 
That still my life had a prolonged date. 
I saw not mercy in my length of years, 
And I have sinned perchance a deadly sin ! 

Ugo. Remember, God is full of tender mercy, 

L 



146 THE OLD MAN. 

And knows our weakness, nor will try our strength 
Beyond what it can bear. 

Old Man. Oh for a sign 

That I might be accepted ; that the sin 
Of my repinings had been blotted out ! 
I fear to die, who have so prayed for death ! 

Ugo. Bethink thee, how our blessed Lord was 
tried, 
And of the agony wherein he prayed 
That that most bitter cup might pass from him ! 
He bore those pangs for thee, and by his stripes 
Thou wilt be healed ! Oh put thy trust in him ! 
Old Man. I am a sinner ! save me, oh my God ! 
Ugo. Amen ! 

[the old man turns his face to the wall. 
— Margaret and Ugolin kneel down and 
fray silently. 



SCENE VI. 

Several days afterwards — a church-yard — a body has 
been committed to the grave; the mourners stand 
round — the stranger comes up as a casual observer 
— the minister repeats these words. 
Min. " Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty 
God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul 
of our dear brother here departed, we therefore com- 



THE OLD MAX. 147 

mit his body to the ground : earth to earth ; ashes 
to ashes ; dust to dust : in the sure and certain hope 
of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord 
Jesus Christ." 

Strang, [aside] Thus is it, whether it be saint or 
sinner, 
All are alike committed to the grave, 
In sure and certain hope of resurrection 
To life eternal ! Well, the fools at -least 
Are charitable in this farewell rite. 

[he looks among the mourners, 
Sure that 's the old man's daughter ! and that man 
Is Pastor Ugolin ! There then is buried 
My hope of that repining, weary soul ! 
Death was before-hand with me. I ne'er dreamed 
Of his sands running out, just yet at least; 
Life is a slippery thing ! I '11 deal no more 
With any mortal who is turned three-score ! 

[he hastens off. 
[the funeral train moves away, preceded 
by choristers chanting. 

" I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, 
write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead who die 
in the Lord ; even so saith the spirit, for they shall 
rest from their labours." 



148 



This second defeat of Achzib was like a blow given 
by an unseen hand ; it was an event altogether out of 
his calculation. He had heard how the spirit of the 
old man, in its moments of irritation, poured forth 
reproaches and murmurs against God, which would 
have been mortal sin had the heart responded to 
them. But his spirit resembled water in its dead 
calm, corrupt and unsightly, which nevertheless when 
agitated by the tempest overleaps its barriers, throws 
off its impurities, and rushes on in a strong, bright 
torrent. His discontent and his impatience were 
almost meaningless on his own lips ; but addressed to 
him as the sentiments of another, to which he was 
required to assent, he started from their sinfulness, 
beholding, as it were, his own reflected image. This 
was an event beyond the range of Achzib's idea of 
possibilities. He was sceptical to all that virtue in 
human nature, which great occasions bring into 
action, though it may have lain dormant for half a 
life, and which may be regarded as a store in reserve 
for extraordinary emergency. 



119 

The old man seemed, as it were, to have slipped 
from his grasp ; and, half angry with himself for 
being overcome by so apparently weak an opponent, 
he turned from the burial-place and w r alked on, he 
hardly knew whither, for many hours. At length he 
was recalled to his own identity by coming upon a 
village church-yard, where a funeral was taking 
place. The dead seemed to have been of the lower 
class of society, if you might judge by the appearance 
of the coffin, its humble appurtenances, and its few 
attendants ; but there was a something about its 
chief and only mourner, which told that misfortune 
had brought her thus low. Yet was her whole air 
melancholy and wretched in the extreme ; and so 
harrowed by grief, so woe-stricken, so w r holly self- 
abandoned, that no one could see her for a moment 
without knowing that it was her son who had been 
committed to the dust, the only child of his mother, 
and she a widow. 

Achzib remarked this to an observant stranger 
who stood by. 

" You are right," he replied, " they bury the only 
child of a widow ; a son, who having died before his 
time, will cause the mother's grey hairs to descend 
with sorrow to the grave !" 

" How," inquired Achzib, " has her loss been so 
very great?" 



150 

" Know you not," rejoined the other, " that a 
mother mourns most, suffers most, for the child least 
worthy of her love ? Man knows not to what an 
extent that mother's heart has suffered : it has been 
wounded unto death, and yet it lives on, enduring 
a life more painful than death, a life quivering with 
the sting of outraged love !" 

" Was he not young," inquired Achzib ; " how 
then has he committed so great sin?" 

" You cannot have attentively regarded these 
things," replied the stranger, " or you would know 
that, for a young man, the most perilous of all con- 
ditions is to be the son of a widow ; for losing the 
authority, the counsel, the example of a father, he 
falls into numberless temptations, against which a 
mother can be but an insufficient defence. Besides, 
young men, too often having experienced the easy, 
irresolute, uncertain government of a mother in their 
boyish years, cease to regard her with respect as 
they approach manhood." 

" But," said Achzib, recalling to mind the firm 
principle and devoted affection of the Poor Scholar, 
tc I have known such arriving at manhood, armed at 
all points against temptation, and cherishing in their 
souls the most ardent love, the most holy reverence 
for a mother." 



151 

" God forbid," replied the stranger, " that I should 
say all mothers are inadequate to the government of 
a son, or all sons incapable of estimating, and grate- 
fully rewarding the unwearied solicitude, the never- 
sleeping affection of a mother ; for I myself know a 
widow who has trained three noble sons from their 
fatherless boyhood, maintaining her own authority, 
and nurturing in their souls every virtuous and 
manly sentiment ; and who now, adorning manhood, 
are as a crown of glory to her brows. And it may 
also be received as a truth, that love and reverence 
for a widowed mother will be as much a preservation 
from evil as the authority of a father — but these arc 
the exceptions to the general rule, which is as I have 
said, that the sons of widows are the most peculiarly 
liable to temptation, and the least defended against it." 

" I believe you to be right," replied Achzib, not a 
little pleased with the hint, which had inadvertently 
been given him. " I believe you are right ! and of 
all temptations to which a young man so circum- 
stanced is exposed, those of pleasure would be the 
most besetting," continued he, remembering the first 
sin of poor Luberg. 

" Exactly so," said the stranger : " the timid, 
enervating system of female government, gives the 
heart a bias towards pleasure, without strengthening 
it for resistance, or even enabling it to discriminate 



152 

between good and evil. This is the snare into which 
such generally fall ; and there is hardly a sin more 
sorrowfully degrading, or one which holds its victim 
more irreclaimably : he is as one self-conducted to 
sacrifice; a captive, who rivets on his own fetters, 
while he groans for freedom : for the indulgence of 
those vices miscalled pleasure, while they deaden the 
will, leave quiveringly alive the sense of degradation. 
How has the poor youth, who is now gone down 
to the dust, looked with streaming eyes upon pure 
and noble beings, whom though he still worshipped, 
he had not the power to imitate, and from whose 
society he was cast as a fallen angel from heaven ! 
How, to obliviate the maddening sense of his own 
degraded condition, has he plunged into excesses 
which he abhorred ! Alas, the spirit, writhing under 
the compunctuous sense of evil, and the hopelessness 
of good, is a sight upon which the angels of God 
might drop tears of pity !" 

Achzib was satisfied with what he had heard ; 
therefore, bidding his companion good day, he re- 
turned to the city. He had, however, a superstitious 
repugnance to making another trial in the scene of 
his late defeat ; he therefore removed to a city where 
all was new to him, and very soon commenced his 
fifth essay, according to the hints thrown out by the 
stranger of the church-yard. 



RAYMOND. 



RAYMOND. 



PERSONS. 

RAYMOND. 

ACHZIB, A STRANGER, AFTERWARDS BARTOLIN A MAN 

OF PLEASURE. 

MADAME BERTHIER, THE MOTHER OF RAYMOND. 

THE PASTOR, HIS GUARDIAN. 

ADELINE, THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER, BETROTHED TO 

RAYMOND. 

CLARA, A YOUNG LADY OF THE CITY. 

MADAME VAUMAR, HER MOTHER. 

COUNT SIEMAR, THE LOVER OF CLARA. 

SEVERAL SUBORDINATE CHARACTERS. 

Time occupied, upwards of three years. 



ACT I.— SCENE I. 

A summer morning — Raymond sitting under a large 
tree in the fields — a small village, half hid among 
wood, is seen in the distance. 

Raymond. How full of joy is life! All things are 
made 
For one great scheme of bliss — all things are good, 
As at the first when God pronounced them so : 
The broad sun pouring down upon the earth 



156 RAYMOND. 

His bright effulgence ; every lighted dew-drop 
Which glitters with the diamond's many rays ; 
These flowers which gem the coronal of earth ; 
Those larks, the soaring minstrels of the sky ; 
Clear waters leaping like a glad existence ; 
Forests and distant hills, and low green valleys, 
And feeding flocks, and little hamlet-homes, 
All, all are good — all, all are beautiful ! 
Existence is a joy ! I walk, I leap 
In that exuberant consciousness of life 
Whichnerves my limbs and makes all action pleasure. 
The vigour of strong life is to my frame 
As pinions to the eagle : and my soul 
Is as a winged angel, soaring up 
In its full joy unto the heaven of heavens ; 
Thank God for life, and for the spirit which gives 
The fulness of enjoyment unto life ! 

All that the soul desires of good and fair 
Will I possess ; knowledge that elevates 
And that refines ; and high philosophy, 
Which wakes the god- like principle in man ; 
And in the founts of sacred poesy 
I will baptise my spirit, and drink deep 
Of its pure, living waters ; and sweet music 
Shall minister to me, like heavenly spirits 
Calling me upwards to sublimer worlds ! 



RAYMOND. 157 

All that is beautiful in art and nature — 

Fair forms in sculptured marble, and the works 

Of the immortal masters will I study; 

And so imbue my spirit with a sense 

Of grace and majesty, till it shall grow 

Like that which it perceives ! To me far lands, 

Immortal for their ancient histories, 

Shall be familiar places : I will seek 

The Spirit of greatness where the great have dwelt, 

And left behind eternal memories ! 

Am I not young, and filled with high resolves ? 

And like the sea my will shall be supreme ; 

Man shall not set it barriers, nor shall say 

" Thus far, but yet no farther !" I will on ! 

Glory and pleasure at the goal I see, 

And I will win them both : pleasure, which crowns 

Glory with its most radiant diadem — 

Pleasure, that springs from the proud consciousness 

Of high achievement, purchased at a price 

None but the great would dare to pay for it ! 

Ere long, dear mother, thou shalt see thy son 
Among the honourable of the earth. 
I know not how renown shall be achieved ; 
But that it shall is my most solemn purpose, 
And this is my first earnest of success — 



158 



RAYMOND. 



That without power, heaven gives not the desire ! 

Yes, yes my mother, I will crown thy age 

With such transcendent glory of my deeds^ 

That thou shalt praise God for one chiefest blessing — 

Thy son, thy dutiful, illustrious son ! 

I will not bow unto the common things 
Men make their idols — I will stand apart 
From common men — my sensual appetite 
Shall be subservient to my loftier souL — 
I will be great and wise, and rise supreme 
Above my kind, by dominance of mind ! 

But who comes here ? He hath the look of one 
Who hath seen foreign travel, or hath dwelt 
Much among men, such ever have that air 
Of easy gaiety. — The walk through life 
Without impediment ; my country breeding, 
Makes me embarrassed in a stranger's presence — 
But I will up and meet him, and perchance 
Improve this meeting to a better knowledge. 

[he rises, and meets a stranger, who is 
advancing over the fields towards him, 

Raym. Good morrow, sir ! 

You honour glorious Nature, coming out 
Into the fields upon a morn like this ! 

Strang. Your greeting I return with cordial thanks, 



RAYMOND* 159 

And you too have done well to leave your hooks 
To steal an hour for morning recreation. 

Raym. One hour of a fair morning such as this 
Will not suffice me : I shall give the day 
To one long pleasure. 'Tis a festival 
My mother honours with great ceremony, 
Even the birth-day of myself, your servant. 

Strang. I do esteem myself most fortunate 
To meet you on a morning so propitious ! 
For your frank greeting, and your kind respect 
Have kindled in my soul a friend's regard 
In your life's interest, and I gladly wish 
To you long years, health, wealth, and happiness ! 

Raym. To you, a stranger, I owe many thanks ; 
And, as my quest this morning was for pleasure, 
And time is of no count, let me walk with you ; 
I can conduct you to our fairest scenes, 
And to some nooks of such sequestered beauty, 
As dryads might have haunted in old times — 
These are my native scenes, I know them all — 
Go you unto the village ? 

Strang. I, like you, 

Seek only pleasure on this sunny morning. 
I left the city three days since, to spend 
An interval of business in the country, 
And chance directed me unto yon village, 
Where I shall yet abide a day or two. 



160 RAYMOND. 

Raym. 'T is a sweet, quiet hamlet, buried deep 
Within its wooded gardens ! I am bound 
Thither this evening, to its excellent pastor, 
The kind and faithful guardian of my youth, 
Since my good father's death, — but now whose trust 
Expires upon this day. 

Strang. Ha ! one-and- twenty — 

It is an age of happiness — the boy 
Has not assumed the sternness of the man ; 
Heavy experience does not weigh down pleasure. 
You are embarking, even now, young man, 
Upon a glorious sea ; spread wide your sails ; 
Catch every breath of heaven, and run down joy ; 
Make her your own before the tempest comes ! 

Raym. You are not a grave councillor, who bids 
The inexperienced watch, and watch and wait, 
Ever distrusting — still expecting evil ! 

Strang. Wisdom is wisest which is bought from 
proof. 
Try all things, prove them, make your virtue sure 
Upon the rock of wise experience ! 
Up, and partake of pleasure while you may ; 
A time will come, of feebleness and care, 
When she will fly from you, howe'er you woo her ! 

Raym. My youth is vowed to study ; therein 
lies 
My pleasure : — knowledge, and the high reward 



RAYMOND. 161 

Of an ennobled mind, these are alone 
The aim for which I strive ! 

Strang. A noble strift ! 

But knowledge of manhood will serve you more 
Than closet-study or book-learning can. 

Raym. As yet, I would not dare to trust myself 
Into the world. I know that youth is weak, 
And may be lured so easily aside ! 
I have a mother, sir, a widowed mother ; 
I am her only child — I would not leave her ; 
My life is vowed to make her bless her son ! 

Strang. Give me thy hand, young man. I honour 
thee ! 
A virtue such as thine may face temptation ; 
Like gold, it will come purer from the fire ! 

Raym. Kind sir, you do commend me all too much. 
But we are now even at my mother's gate — 
You must walk in, she will rejoice to welcome 
One that has kindly conversed with her son. 

Strang. A fair and stately mansion, with old woods 
Girded around — an honourable assurance 
That thy good father was a careful man, 
And left to thee a patrimony clear ! 

Raym. 'T is a fair place ; and let me make you, 
sir, 
Further acquainted with it, and my mother, 
She has the kindest smiles for friendlv greeting ? 



162 RAYMOND. 

Strang. No, my young friend, I must decline that 
pleasure — 

4 

A household festival is never mended 
By presence of a stranger — for all mothers 
Esteem such days solemn and sacred seasons — 
So now farewell ! 

Raym. Kind sir, farewell to you ! 

I '11 pledge our friendship in a generous cup. 

[lie parts from him. 

Strang. He will not cheat me like the widow's 
son 
In the frieze-gown sitting among his books ! 
This is a scholar of another sort ! 
And spite his talk of virtue and high doings, 
He 's mine, poor self-deluding boy, he 's mine ! 
But had I faced his mother, she had spied 
The cloven foot beneath my saintliest guise — 
She is a woman who has tried the world, 
And found it a deceit ; therefore she keeps 
Her gentle Raymond like a Corydon, 
Watching his silly sheep among the fields. 
Fond mother, make a festival, thy son 
Hath eaten the forbidden fruit this day ! 
And drink unto our further friendship, Raymond, 
For all that it can give, thou shalt enjoy — 
Beauty and gold ; whatever the world calls pleasure ; 
But thou must pay the stated price thereof! 



RAYMOND. 103 

Now fare thee well ! I '11 meet thee this same eve, 
Before the pastor and thy wisest mother 
Do arm thee with suspicious wariness ! 

[he goes off. 



SCENE II. 

Evening — the west tinged with the fading clouds of a 
gorgeous sunset, the full-moon shining high in the 
heavens — Raymond and Adeline standing together 
on a garden terrace, before the open window of the 
house. 

Raym* How like a fair face shining out of heaven, 
Yon glorious moon appears ! sweet Adeline, 
All things I look upon are beautiful — 
Even as I felt this morning, feel I now ; 
The mere perception of a vital power, 
Is strong enjoyment ; every breath I draw, 
Is like the quaffing an inspiring draught 
Of some old vintage, which, to every pulse 
Doth send a bounding joy ! old Jove felt thus, 
Draining the nectar from the cup of Hebe ! 

Adel. Raymond, be sure he was some alchemist 
You met this morning, who hath pondered out 
The wonderful elixir, and hath given 
To you a drop thereof ! Did you not taste, 
Or smell from a most curious, antique flask, 

m 2 



164 RAYMOND. 

Less than my little finger, that he shewed you ? 
Depend upon it, Raymond, you 're immortal ! 
Now say, have you not drank the Elixir Vitae ? 

Raym. Nay, Adeline, my soul ran o'er with joy 
Before 1 met that stranger. 

A del. 'Twas because 

You now can call yourself your own sage master. 
We shall not see you, Raymond, as we used — 
You are full-grown, and not of nonage now ; 
You will not come to study with my father 
Those old Greek poets ; I must read myself ; 
You will not be my lexicon again ! 

Raym. Sweet Adeline, 1 shall come more than ever ; 
But you forget, I have your father's leave 
To lay those old Greek poets by, and read 
Another book, whereto, my own dear love, 
You must yourself be my sweet lexicon ! 

[lie hisses her cheek. 

Adel. Oh fie ! my father should not give you leave 
To put your studies by, for well I know 
You are a- weary of them, and of us! 

Raym. Hast thou not been mine angel for these 
years — 
Oh ever since I was a little child ? 
But now much more than ever ! 

Adel. But this scheme 

Of going to the city, I like not — 



RAYMOND. 16,") 

Why would you leave us ? you can study here, 
My father studies in this quiet place ; 
He ever is distracted in the city. 

Raym. ? Twas a mere vision ! I but thought of it. 
Adel. Well, think of it no more ! 
Raym. Now, let us in ; 

And ere I say good night, dear Adeline, 
Let us have some sweet music — sing that hymn, 
So full of awful sorrow, that I love, 
Give me sad music when my heart is lightest ! 

[they go in. 
[Adeline is heard singing to her 
instrument. 

Father, from heaven look down, 

Sorrow doth cover us ; 

Great waves pass over us ; 
The heavy waters of a stormy sea ! 

Our hope is but in thee — 
Save us, oh father, save ! 

Night hath come down on us ! 

Our visages are pale ; 

Our drooping spirits fail ; 
We do confess our sin ! Forgive, forgive ! 

Oh say that we shall live ; 

Though we have sinned, yet save ! 



1(>() RAYMOND. 

Alas, the day is done ! 

God has abandoned us ! 

Oh sea, roll over us — 
Cover us mountains, ere the Judge appear ! 

He will not, will not hear — 
He will not, will not save ! 



ACT II. — SCENE I. 

Twelve months afterwards — a chamber in a magnifi- 
cent house in the city. 

Bartolin. [alone] So far and all is well, for my 
good Raymond, 
Though a self-willed, is still a hopeful scholar : 
True, I have had to war with passion- starts, 
And strong out-breakings of his natural love 
Towards that tender, long-enduring mother ; 
But now her anger, and her stern upbraidings 
Will do the work I had found difficult ; 
The severing of the latest bonds of duty — 
Nor shall there lack me means to effect disunion ; 
Black rumours, based on truth, shall reach her ear — 
His thriftless charges ; his luxurious life ; 
His friends the dissolutest in the city ; 
His disregard of stated sacraments ; 
The lawless prodigal he is become, — 
All this shall reach her by a thousand ways. 



RAYMOND. !(>7 

She will contrast the present with the past, 

And note the work of twelve months on the boy, 

Boastful of virtue ; see the end of all 

That proud ambition, which did plume itself 

Upon a glorious eyrie 'mong mankind ! 

The mother's heart is keenly sensitive, 

And, when it hath been wrung, and wronged like 

her's, 
Doth take a tone so vehement in sorrow, 
That it may pass for acrimonious hate, — 
Thus stands the case at present ! 

With the tide 
Of headlong pleasure we go sailing on, 
Filling the echoing air with loud carousal. 
She sits within her solitary home, 
Eating her heart with miserable thoughts ; 
Affections blighted ; hopes that are o'ercast, 
And prayers that have no answer. Wretched mother, 
Thy prodigal will ne'er return to thee ! 

But hark ! there is the voice of merriment — 
Raymond is loudest at the festive board ; 
Raymond is swiftest in the race for ruin ; 
Wildest in riot ; greediest of applause ; 
Most daring in the insolent outbreaks 
Of passion against custom ; first in all things : 



168 RAYMOND. 

Goodliest in person ; most refined in manners ; 
Witty and gracious ; smiling like an angel, 
Yet growing daily blacker, like a fiend ! 
Oh most accomplished sinner, thou art mine ! 

But hark again ! their merriment grows louder ; 
Hence will I, and partake their revelry. 

[he goes out. 

SCENE II. 

A lofty saloon, in which Raymond and his guests sit 
round a table furnished with the choicest wines. 

Raym. [filling his glass] This is my birth-night, 

friends, make merry all ! 
Guests. Health and long life unto our noble host ! 
Raym. My friends, I thank ye, — now devote the 
night 
To one long revel, — drown all care in wine ! 

[they all drink. 
Why are you silent, friends ? let us have song ! 

1st Gen. [singing : — 

Down, down with the sorrows 

And troubles of earth ! 
For what is our life made, 
But drinking and mirth ! 



RAYMOND. 1G9 



Drink and be glad, sirs, 

Laugh and be gay ; 
Keep sober to morrow, 

But drink to day ! 

Love's a deceiver, 

He '11 cheat if he can ; 
Sweet innocent woman 

Is wiser than man ! 
Trust her not, trust her not, 

She will deceive ! 
Who wins her may gather 

The sea in a sieve ! 

Laying up money 

Is labour and care ; 
All you have toiled for 

Is spent by the heir ! 
Knowledge is wearisome, 

Save when the wise 
Study whole volumes 

In beautiful eyes ! 

So, down with the sorrows 
And troubles of earth ! 

For what was our life made 
But drinking and mirth ! 



170 RAYMOND. 

Then drink and be glad, sirs, 

Laugh and be gay ; 
Keep sober to morrow, 

But drink to day ! 

Raym. A jovial song, and fall of sage advice ! 
Friends, do as ye are told, drink ye to day ! 

[he fills his glass ; the guests all do the 
same, 
2d Gen. Now, by your leave, I'll give you an 
old song, 
I heard a soldier singing on the rampart 
Just as a bullet struck him. 

AIL Let us have it ! 

[he sings. 

She stood before our Lady's shrine, 

And offered gems and gold ; 
A stately woman, pale and sad, 

Before her time grown old. 



And softly, softly murmured she 

A prayer so sad and low, 
And hid her face with both her hands, 

That none her grief might know. 



RAYMOND. 171 

That woman's prayer, unheard by man, 

Went up to God on high, 
Like an archangel's trumpet- voice, 

That shakes the earth and sky. 

11 Give back my wanderer unto me, 

Mine erring child restore ! " 
But the hills of heaven they answered her, 

' He 's lost for evermore ! ' 

" Give back," she cried, " mine only one, 

Have I not sorrowed sore ! " 
But the depths of hell made answer low, 

* He 's our's for evermore ! ' 

Raym. Sir, you have cast a gloom upon our 
mirth. 
Drink, friends, and let us drown the memory 
Of this strange song in wine. 

3d Gen. [flourishing his glass and singing : — 

Where art thou, Nerisse the bright ! 

With thy jewels wreathed about thee, 
Like the starry queen of night — 

Love himself would die without thee ! 



172 RAYMOND. 

Sweet Nerisse ! thou art so fair ; 

Art so dowered with queenly graces, 
That in heaven, if thou wert there, 

Goddesses would veil their faces ! 

Enter servant — to Raymond, 

There is a lady, sir, doth crave admittance. 

Raym. Dost know her? If she be the dancing 

girl 

Who was here yesternight, let her come in. 

Serv. I do not know her, sir. She is close veiled. 

Gen. Let her come in, Nerissa wore a veil ! 

[enter Madame Berthier, throwing bach 

her veil. 

Mad. B. Peace with your idle jests ! — I am not 

one 

Come to partake your sinful revelries ! 

Raym. [endeavouring to put her bac¥\ Shame on 

you, Madame Berthier, — 'tis unseemly ! 

Mad. B. I will not be thrust back ! What are 

these men 

That they should part the mother and her son ! 

Guests, [to each other] It is his mother, — it is 

Madame Berthier ! 

Raym. Come with me, mother, — let me speak 

with thee ! 

[they go out. 



RAYMOND. 173 



SCENE III. 



A small apartment — Enter Madame Berthier and 
Raymond. 

Raym. It was not warrantable e'en in a mother 
Thus to intrude on her son's privacy ! 

Mad, B. And this from thee, thou hope of my 
lone heart ! 
Ungracious son, is this thy love and duty! 
They do not call me now a happy mother — 
No, no, they need not — I have now no son ! 
Would I had followed thee unto the grave 
In the kind innocence of thy young boyhood, — 
Then I had wept for thee — then had I said 
When sorrow came, " Oh if my boy had lived, 
He would have been my comfort ! " 

[weeps. 

Raym. Nay, be calm, 

And hear me speak to thee ! Have I not borne 
Bitter invective with unwearying patience ; 
Hast thou not heaped reproach upon reproach, 
Upbraiding on upbraiding, till I hid 
Myself behind stern silence for repose ? 

Mad. B. Raymond, thou wast my son — my only 
child, 
My life's life, and the glory of my age — 



174 RAYMOND. 

The dearest creature on the earth to me — 
Was I to see thee perish and be still ? 
Was I to see thy soul upon the brink 
Of black perdition, and not cry " beware ! " 
Oh cruel, pitiless unto thyself, 
Unjust unto thy mother ! 

Raym. Thou 'rt unjust 

To me by these unmerited reproaches ! 
Because I sought to live among mankind, 
And with the gay be gay — and with the young 
Live in light-hearted joy, must I, perforce, 
Be a lost profligate ? 

Mad. B. Alas, my son, 

Thou dost deceive thyself. This is not joy, 
This giddy rioting ! and call'st thou life, 
This daily wasting of thy manhood's strength ? 
How art thou self-deceived ! how art thou changed— 
Changed mournfully without, as changed within ! 
Thy cheek has lost its beautiful hue of youth, 
Thine eye its brilliant cheerfulness ! Would God 
That I could give my life a sacrifice, 
And so redeem thee, my poor, erring son ! 

Raym. Alas, my mother, I have done thee wrong ; 
Forgive me ! and may heaven forgive me too ! 

Mad. B. My son, my dear, dear son, thou wilt 
return — 



RAYMOND. 175 

Thou wilt make glad once more thy father's place — 
Wilt not let shame and ruin cover us ! 

[she embraces him and weeps. 

Raym. Now mother rest awhile, thou need 'st 
repose ; 
These rooms are still, and I will send attendants 
Who will regard thy comfort, ere thou go 
Back to thy home. 

Mad. B. I go not back without thee ! 

I will not leave thee in the cruel power 
Of him that has no mercy — that vile man, 
That heartless man, — the dissolute Bartolin ! 

Raym. Thou may'st reproach me, but my friends 
thou must not ! 

Mad. B. Thy friend ! call him thy foe, thy cruel 
foe! 

Raym. My mother, let our parting be in peace — 
Thy over-anxious heart makes thee intemperate ! 
I go not hence, the city is my home — 
Now fare thee well ! 

Mad B. Thou blind, deluded man, 

Thou cruel son of a heart-broken mother ! 
Oh Raymond, Raymond, I came here in sorrow, 
And thou wilt send me hence more sorrowful ! 
What shall avail me ? I will kneel to thee — 
I do implore thee to be merciful 
To thine abused soul — my son, my son, 



176 RAYMOND. 

I bathe thy feet with tears, and my white hair 
Bow to the dust ! return, my child, return — 
My prodigal, return to God, and me ! 

[she sinks insensible to the floor, Ray- 
mond very much moved, raises her 
and supports her to the couch. 

Enter bartolin. 

Bar. The guests much marvel at your long delay, 
Their mirth is silenced until your return. 

Raym. Let it be silenced ! let them all begone ! 
To-night I shall return not to the table ! 

[exit Bartolin. 
Mad. B. [faintly risi?ig^\ My son, I have beheld 
thee ; and my heart 
Bleeds with a cureless sorrow. I will hence ; 
What do I here in* this strange house of mirth ? 
I will go back unto my lonely place ! 

Raym. Mother, thou shalt not leave me thus ! 
awhile 
Remain thou here with me, an honoured guest. 
Come, I will lead thee to a fitter chamber, 
Where thou shalt calm thy soul and rest thy frame. 

Mad. B. Bless thee, my son ! Oh be my age's stay. 
How rich, how happy, how exceeding blest 
A dutiful, dear child can make a parent ! 

[they go out. 



RAYMOND. 17" 



SCENE IV. 



Several months afterwards — evening — pleasure gar- 
dens, adorned with fountains, temples, and statues — 
parties in the distance, are seen through the openings 
of treses, dancing on the smooth green turf — music is 
heard, and handsomely dressed people are walking 
about. The interior of a Grecian temple, which 
commands a partial view of the gardens — Raymond 
reclines on a couch, Clara sits at his feet, her hair 
bound with a wreath of rose and myrtle. 

Raym. This is a fairy place ! none are seen here 
Save gallant men, and women beautiful ; 
One might believe there was no care on earth 
Looking on man through vistas such as these ! 
Yon green turf and those heavy-branched trees, 
And those light-footed forms, with twining arms, 
Dancing beside that fountain, call to mind 
The famous gardens of old Babylon. 

Clara. They are delicious gardens ! but most fair 
To me, because I ever meet you in them ! 
I do not see the people, nor the fountains, 
Nor the dark trees, nor any thing but you ! 

Raym. Sweet Clara, love makes up the beautiful 
whole 
Of thy delightful being ! thou hast never 



178 RAYMOND. 

Known what it is to carry a sad heart 
Into a place of shining revelry ! 

Clara. Can you have known it ? you, the rich, the 
witty — 
You, that they ever call the fortunate ! 

Raym. I have, my fair one ! But come, sing to me; 
I am like Saul, the spirit of woe is on me, 
And thou must charm it hence with thy sweet 
songs. 
Clara. Oh that I were a Muse, that I could put 
The very soul of music into words ! 

Raym. Thou art a woman — thou art mine own 
love, 
My glorious Clara, brighter than a Muse ! 
Hebe was such as thou ; I marvel not 
The heart of Jove sank in the nectar-cup ! 
But sing, my fair one, let me hear thy voice ! 

There 's a cloud on thy brow, love, 

Oh smile it away ! 
And do not let sorrow 

Depress thee to day ! 

Smile, dearest and brightest ! 

For why should'st thou wear, 
When others are smiling, 

This aspect of care ? 



RAYMOND. 17^ 

Thou hast sworn that my love 

Is a balm for distress, 
If it blessed thee before, 

*T will now doubly bless ! 

They tell me thou art not 

So true as I deem, 
And that I must awake 

From my beautiful dream : 

But thy goodness they know not 

Who speak thus of thee ; 
Thou hast sworn, and I know 

Thou art faithful to me ! 

Raym. [starting up] 'Tis he! 'tis he! I know 

him now indeed ! 
Clara. "Who, Raymond ? speak ! and why art 

thou so pale ? 
Raym. Dost see him, Clara ! him in the black 
cloak, 
That solemn-looking man ? 

Clara. 'T is but a pastor ; 

I saw him, w T hen we entered, gaze on us — 
But there is nothing strange in such a thing. 
Though they look grave, they are most pleasant 
men. 

n 2 



180 RAYMOND. 

They laugh and sing ; they are but stern outside — 
We know a many very worthy pastors. 

Raym. This is not such a one — thou know'st him 
not! 
Hither he has not come for revelry — 
I know him well ; for he was my youth's guardian ! 

Clara. You need not fear him, he is not so now ! 
Come Raymond, let us leave him to himself, 
He 's moralizing on these gaieties ; 
I '11 warrant you, he '11 make a sermon of them ! 

Raym. Be silent girl ! I did not ask thy jests — 
Rest on that couch till I return to thee. 

[he goes out. 



SCENE V. 

An alcove in a sequestered 'part of the garden. 
Enter Raymond, and the pastor. 

Raym. Well, sir ? 

Past. And having seen, I do depart, 

Bearing back with me a most sad conviction, 
That thou art in the way that leads to death ! 

Raym. The privilege of an old friend allows 
You to speak thus — nothing beside would give it ! 

Past. I should regard it as the sacred duty 
Of my high office, to warn any man 
Of his soul's danger ; and think not that thou, 



RAYMOND. 181 

Who hadst a son's place in my aged heart, 

Shalt pass unwarned ! No, Raymond, I conjure thee 

Flee from destruction, ere it be too late ! 

I charge thee not with sin, — be thine own conscience 

Thy judge, as thine accuser ! Ah, my friend, 

Is this the splendid promise of thy youth ? 

Thy blameless life — thy high heroic virtue ; 

Thy lofty hopes — thy dreams of fair ambition ; 

The principles thy noble mother gave thee — 

And thy affection for that injured mother ? 

Raym. Who is there, sir, that can look back and 
say, 
In nought have I offended ? 

Past. None, my son ! 

All, all have sinned — #11, all have fallen short 
Of the full measure of their righteousness ! 
But this can not avail thee — couldst thou plead 
Thus in the awful day, before thy Judge ? 
Thou must abjure all sin — must cleanse thy heart 
And make thy life pure, ere thou canst look up 
With any hope that there is pardon for thee ! 
More joy is there in heaven when one poor sinner 
Returns to God, than over many just, 
Who do not need forgiveness ! Oh, come back, 
Come back poor prodigal, to thy father's aims ! 
Come back my friend — virtue has truer joys 
Than guilty pleasure ever can afford thee ! 



182 RAYMOND. 

Raym. My more than father ! there is one fair 
creature, 
Whose virtue, whose dear love can win me back — 
Thy daughter, can she love me and forgive ? 

Past, Alas, alas my poor heart-broken daughter ! 
It is too late for this. If thou hadst loved 
That maiden, thou hadst ne'er run madly on 
In such a wild career of vice and folly ! 

Raym, Thou canst not fathom man's mysterious 
heart — 
Thou canst not comprehend how Adeline 
Has been a shrined saint within my soul, 
Still unpolluted by all baser worship — 
When I forgot God, I remembered her ! 
Oh, might I hope, I would retrace my steps 
Through burning agonies ! 

Past, Poor, erring man, 

It is too late for hope ! canst thou recall 
The bitter woe of thy unkind desertion ? 
Oh, Raymond, Raymond, thou know'st not the 

pangs 
Of that sad maiden's heart : how she grew pale 
With hope that was a mockery ; how she pined 
For the companion of her lovely youth, 
Till certainty of thine abandonment 
Made love despair ! 



RAYMOND. 183 

Raym. Oh, let me win her back 

To love and happiness ! 

Past. She is betrothed 

Unto another bridegroom — one more true, 
More sternly true than thou wert ! 

Raym. Is she false ? 

Hath she too broken her vows ! 

Past. She was not false ! 

Oh, most unkind, come thou and see her spousals — 
Come thou and see the drooping bride of death ! 
Methinks it would recall thee from thy sin 
To see the cruel havoc it has made ! 

Raym. My father, on my knees beside her bed 
I will abjure my sins ! Give, give her to me — 
Even from death will I redeem my bride ! 

Past. I heard a gaudy sinner at thy side 
Singing her harlot songs ! 

Raym. Nay, she is pure ! 

But I have sinned — I do confess my sin— 
'Fore heaven and thee. The vows I made to her 
I do abjure, and my old faith take back ! 

Past. Thoughtless young man ! If thou have any 
vows, 
Hold them religiously ; and use thy power 
To keep that maiden free of sin and shame ! 
The faith thou profferest my dying daughter 
Cometh too late — alas ! alas ! too late ! 



184 RAYMOND. 

Raym. Life has no further hope, no direr pang — 
My sin is past redemption ! 

Past. Raymond, no ! 

Poor Adeline forgives thee, so will God ; 
But thou must turn from sin ! Bethink thee, Ray- 
mond, 
Of thy heart-broken mother ; turn thee back 
Repentant to her arms — a mighty debt 
It is thou owest her, of love unpaid ! 

Raym. Oh for a dark oblivion ! Oh for death ; 
Oh for the blackest, lowest depths of hell, 
So I might win forgetfuliiess ! 

Past. Peace, peace ! 

My heart bleeds for thee ! Thou hast had my 

prayers, 
My earnest prayers to heaven, and yet shall have 
them ! 

Raym. Thus dost thou speak, after the mighty woe 
That I have heaped upon thee ! Is this love, 
Or is it some deep curse, disguised as love ? 

Past. My Raymond, it is thus a Christian man 
Forgives his erring brother. And thou, thou 
Wast as a first-born child unto my soul ! 

Raym. Let me begone ! I am so bowed with 
shame — 
So utterly unworthy — let me go ! 

Past. Yes, let us go ; this gaudy place of sin 



RAYMOND. 185 

Is no fit shrine for humble penitence ; 
Come then with me ! 

Raym. Nay, nay, I go alone ! 

I have heard that which hath unmanned my soul ; 
Give me but time — I '11 meet thee on the morrow ! 

[he turns hastily away, and passes among 
the trees. 
Past. Strengthen him, Oh Lord ! The present 
time is precious : 
Repentance comes too late that comes to-morrow ! 

[he follows him. 



SCENE VI. 

The house of Madame Vaumar — a noble apartment — 
Madame Vaumar and her daughter sitting together. 

Mad. V. But what are his intentions towards 
you, 
Ay ? honourable marriage ? 

Clara. Why question it ? 

Have we not had, dear mother, proof on proof 
Of his unwavering kindness unto us ? 

Mad. V. Presents and money he has ne'er with- 
held— 
Of these, free-handed men are ever lavish ; 
With these they buy exemption from all bonds ; 
'T is therefore I suspect his pure intentions. 



186 RAYMOND. 

Clara. Suspect him ! Oh, I should as soon suspect 
The sun that shines at noon-day ! 

Mad. V. Nonsense, child ! 

Enter servant. 

Serv. Madam, Methusaleh, the Jew, is here, 
And doth require to see you. 

Mad. V. Send him back ; 

Say that I am engaged, and cannot see him — 
Or tell him, rather, that I am abroad ! 

Serv. I told him this, but it would not suffice 
him ; 
He will not leave the house unless he sees you. 

Mad. V. Go then and tell him, I '11 be down anon. 

\_Servant goes out. 
These usurers will sure dictate the terms 
Of their salvation on the judgment day ! 
Money he wants, and money I have none — 
I 'd meet a lion rather than this Jew ! 

Clara. He has had patience, mother, wondrous 
patience ! 

Mad. V. Pshaw, silly girl, he'll make us pay 
for it ! 

Clara. And yet we go on, ever spending more — 
Far better were it to have paid this Jew, 
Than to have spent a thousand crowns, my mother, 
For one night's masquerade ! 



RAYMOND. 187 

Mad. V. You simple child, 

That never had the commonest worldly wisdom — 
It is but wasting words to talk with you ! 

Clara. Well, mother dear, you have enough for 
both! 

\_Madame Vaumar goes out. 

[after a pause, Clara rises and adjusts her 
hair before a mirror, singing the while. 

Thy love may be rich and great, 

Mine is more to me ! 
Gold it is gives love its weight 

Unto one like thee. 

My love, riding to the fight, 

Wins all eyes to him ; 
Every other gallant knight 

By his side looks dim. 

My love in the minstrel's song 
Has won golden fame — 

[she sees, through the mirror, Raymond 
entering. 
Clara, [nodding to him] Welcome, thou noble flower 
of chivalry — 
Thy fame was well nigh sung ! But Raymond, say, 
Shall you be at the masquerade to night ? 



188 RAYMOND. 

Raym. No, not to night. 

Clara. Nay, but indeed you must ! 

The great Count Seimar, who is just returned, 
And sets the wondering city all a- stir, 
Goes there to night ! 

Raym. Well, let him go, 

What is 't to me ? 

Clara. All women say the Count 

Is handsome, wondrous handsome — and all men 
That he is brave — we know that he is brave ; 
His warlike deeds bear testimony for him. 

Raym. I shall not go ; and do not thou go, Clara ! 

Clara. My mother's heart is bent upon my going, 
And upon my appearing as a Houri ; — 
I like it not ; far rather would- 1 be 
A peasant of Ionia, in the dress 
You did admire so much. 

Raym. Poor foolery this ! 

I pray thee, Clara, go not ! 

Clara. I would swear 

That you were masquerading even now ; 
May 't please your reverence to give reasons good 
For this new faith ! 

But, mercy on us ! Raymond, 
How pale you are ! there 's sorrow in your eye — 
What has distressed you ? Have you seen again 
That gloomy man that met us in the gardens ? 



RAYMOND. 189 

Raym. No, my sweet love ; and if my countenance 
Betoken sorrow, it but tells a tale 
Of a wild agony my soul passed through 
In a strange dream last night. 

Clara. Heed not a dream \ 

Raym. Alas, alas ! it was no common dream — 
It cleaves unto my burning soul, even now, 
Like the irrevocable doom of God ! 
It told me that we, both of us, were damned J 

Clara. Good heavens ! 't is horrible — most hor- 
rible — 
And you do look so stern — so darkly stern ! 

Raym. Not stern, but sad, and sorrowfully earnest. 
Heaven is my witness, sinner as I am, 
With what sincere conviction I conjure thee 
To flee from folly, wherein lyeth death ! 
Thou tender heart, let not the curse come down 
On both of us : — for me there is no hope ; 
Yet, though so black with guilt, I still revere 
The virtuous — I still reverence purity — 
And, for the unstained goodness of thy soul, 
Love thee far better than thy outward charms ; 
And were I but a worthy, guiltless man, 
How would I take thee to my bounding heart, 
And bless my God for so great happiness ! 
But thy fate shall not be allied to mine — 
I will not drag thee with me to the pit ! 



190 RAYMOND. 

Clara. If thou must perish, I will perish with 
thee — 
Suffer with thee — go down to death with thee ! 

Raym. Thou art too good, too noble to be lost ! 

Clara. But let me know thy dream, thy awful 
dream. 

Raym. I dreamt that I was dead — and that, like 
Dives, 
I woke in the eternal pit of sin ! 
I thought I had been judged — Oh, what a sum 
Of crime was there against me ! — crime which then 
I saw deformed, and hideous in the light 
Of God, and all the heavenly company ! 
I thought my mother did appear in heaven 
And call for judgment on me ! — my kind mother, 
Whom I have wronged, and brought to misery ! 

Clara. Oh that thy mother loved me ! Go to her, 
My dearest friend, and reconcile her to thee ! 

Raym. I will, I will, and thou shalt comfort her ! 
But to my dream — Methought that I did hear 
Those lips, which gave the thief upon the cross 
Hope and redemption, say to me " Depart — 
Depart thou cursed, to eternal fire ! " 
And, by a power I did not dare control, 
I was cast down, and down, and ever down 
Into the eternal gulph, yawning and black ; 
Whose depth at length I reached, a world of woe ! 



RAYMOND. 101 

Where sin put off all mask, and did appear 
Monstrous and vile ; and where each countenance 
Wore the expression of a hopeless pang — 
Wailing was there, and gnashing of the teeth, 
And every outward sign that tokeneth woe. 
"Abide thou here !" said one, whose word seemed fate, 
" Abide thou here with her whom thou hast drawn 
From the high beauty of her innocence ! " 

Clara. Ah, gracious God! 'tis like a frightful 
warning, 

Raym. This was my dream. Not indistinct and 
vague 
Like common dreams, but bearing the impress 
Of stern reality. There, too, I saw, 
Like one rejoicing o'er a sacrifice, 
Him that has been mine evil genius ! 

Clara. What, Bartolin ? 

Raym. Methought he was a fiend, 

And called his fellows to rejoice o'er me 
As o'er a victim ! I abhor that man — 
I know that he is crafty, base, and cold — ■ 
And yet he hath so subtly wove himself 
Into the web of my accursed life, 
That he makes up a fearful part of it ! 

Clara. Would that you had not had this horrid 
dream ! 
And yet, dear Raymond, it was but a dream ! 



192 RAYMOND. 

Raym. Thus do we ever strive to put back truth : 
*T was but a dream, we say — I tell thee, Clara, 
It was a dream that doth fore shew my doom ! 

Enter madame vaumar, in great agitation. 

Mad. V. Give me your diamonds, Clara, they 
must go 
To satisfy this avaricious Jew ! 

Clara. My diamonds ! those that Raymond gave 

unto me ! 
Mad. V, Ay, girl ! this Jew would have thy very 
heart's blood ! 
He doth demand with brutal insolence 
The payment of the sum already due — 
Or pledge of jewels equal to the value — 
Or some rich friend as a security ! 

[she throws herself into a chair, and 
wrings her hands. 
We are undone ! poor Clara, we are beggars — 
In the hard hands of a usurious Jew ! 

Raym. Madam, what sum requires this usurer ? 
Mad. V. Far more than we can raise ! three 
thousand crowns — 
But Clara's diamonds will be pledge sufficient — ■ 
Why do you not obey me, Clara ? fetch them ! 
Sir, you must pardon such a use of them, 
But we are poor, and poverty is forced 
To make such sacrifice as wealth conceives not. 



RAYMOND. 193 

Raym. Nay, nay, my Clara, you shall keep your 
baubles ! 
The debt shall be discharged — where is the man ? 
Mad. V. No, dearest sir, you shall not thus o'er- 
burthen 
Yourself with our distresses ! 

Raym. 'T is my pleasure ! 

Three thousand crowns, you say, is his demand ? 
Mad. V. Three thousand crowns, sir, with a large 
arrear 
Of shameful interest. 

Raym. May be four thousand crowns ? 

Mad. V. 'T will be that sum, at least. 
Raym. He is below — 

I ']1 see him and discharge the debt anon. 

Clara. Alas, sir, you will surely curse the day 
You knew us, with our great necessities — 
We are so much your debtors ! 

Raym. I am yours ! 

But now, adieu ! madam, to you good day ! 

[he bows, and goes out. 
Clara. Most generous man! most noble, godlike man ! 
Mother, are you not 'whelmed w r ith gratitude ? 
And yet I would we were not thus indebted. 

Mad. V. 'T is nothing, child, for him — four thou- 
sand crowns — 
? T would go in some wild folly, if not thus : 

o 



194 RAYMOND. 

And if he love you, he is proud to serve you — 
If not, why let the counterfeit pay dearly 
To hide his baseness ! 

Clara. You may reason thus, 

I cannot ! Oh, he is a godlike man ! 

Mad. V. Well, child, I go unto the promenade — 
You must walk too, this clear fresh air will heighten 
The colour on your cheek, too delicate else ; 
And you must wear your brightest looks to-night ! 
Come, come, I wait for you. 

Clara. I shall not walk — 

My heart is weary — I shall to my chamber. 

[she goes out ; Mad. V. follows her. 



SCENE VII. 

The house pf Raymond — he and Bartolin sitting at a 
table, with papers before them. 

Raym. And say you there 's no residue ? 

Bar. No — none ! 

Raym. And that this money cannot be obtained ? 

Bar. I say again, it cannot ! 

Raym. Are there none 

Who will advance this money on my bond ? 

Bar. Your bond is nothing without means to back 
it- 
It cannot be obtained ! 



RAYMOND. 195 

Raym. It must ! it shall ! 

Money has hitherto been plentiful — 
Apply, sir, where you have applied before ! 

Bar. I have applied ; and this was all my answer. 
[he produces a small sealed packet. 

Raym. Well, sir, and what is this ? 

Bar. Nay, break the seal ! 

Raym. [opening the packet] What things are these ? 

Bar. With tears, she bade me say 

That she had nought else left — her wedding ring, 
And her dead husband's Bible. 

Raym. Oh, my mother ! 

Thou cruel, godless wretch ; hast thou been draining 
From that heart-broken mother, her poor all ! 
Was it from her thou got'st the easy gold 
With which thou sinn'dst, — and leddest me to sin ! 

Bar. Did you not bid me get you gold; and 
swore 
You cared not whence, nor how ? 

Raym. Thou heartless sinner ; 

Thou pander to iniquity ! May heaven 
Visit this mother's sorrow on thy head ! 
When came this message to thee ? 

Bar. Full seven days since. 

Raym. Full seven days since! and yet you told 
me not. 

o 2 



196 RAYMOND. 

Bar. You gave me not the chance ! Have you 
not shunned me? 
Have you not flung at me opprobrious looks 
Whene'er we met, and passed, as if I were 
A loathsome leper ? 

Raym. 'Cause I hated thee — 

Because I know thee ! and I fain would not 
Breathe of the air thy presence hath polluted. 
Bar. 'Twere better that we parted ! 
Raym. It were best. 

Bar. I thought not to have found you, sir, un- 
grateful ! 
Raym. I do not owe thee gratitude, but curses ! 
Bar. We have had many happy days together, — 
We have had jovial nights. I would not part 
From an old boon companion, with a grudge. 
When this hot fit is by, you '11 need my service, 
And I '11 attend your summons. 

Raym. Hateful reptile ; 

Too long I have endured thee. Get thee hence ! 
Bar. [aside] I will return these insults tenfold on 
thee — 
And thou shalt find the reptile has his fangs ! 

[he goes out. 
Raym. [after a pause, taking up the ring] 
Small golden circlet — pledge of holy wedlock ; 
How have my mother's eyes been fixed on thee ! 



RAYMOND. 197 

In joy, at first — the happy, wealthy bride 

Of a good man ! — and then in that great sorrow 

Which fell upon her heart, when death came down 

And left her in her early widowhood ! 

Next, came the o'erwhelming agony of life — 

Outraged affection ; crushed and withered hope ; 

The blight of being — poverty ; and shame, 

For a lost, guilty son ! — how turned she then 

Her dimmed eyes upon thee ! 

Oh, thou mute thing 
That yet reproachest with a tongue of fire ; 
I hear thy admonition ! I will fly 
To her, and save her ! 

[he hastens out. 



SCEXE VIII. 

A meanly furnished garret — a poor ivoman at her 
work ; a knock is heard — she opens the door, and 
Raymond enters. 

Raym. Lives here not Madam Berthier, my good 

woman ? 
Worn. Alas, sir, no ! — she died a week ago. 
Raym. Died — woe's me! Said you truly she 

was dead ? 
Worn. Yes, sir, she died, and of a broken heart, — 
I knew her heart was breaking at the first. 



198 RAYMOND. 

They who have had much sorrow know its signs, 
Howe 'er disguised ;• and I have had my share. 

Raym. Good woman, let me take this seat, I 'm 
faint. 

Worn. Alas, sir, then you knew poor Madam 
Berthier — 
Methought she had no friends, and none that loved 
her! 

Raym, Died she within this room ? 

Worn, Upon that bed — 

A poor, mean bed ; yet was she thankful for 't. 

Raym. Oh, she was used to many stately comforts ; 
And she died there ! 

Worn. Ay ; now, methinks, I see her, 

With her thin clasped hands and sunken eyes, 
Praying to Heaven to bless a graceless son, 
That had reduced her unto poverty ! 

Raym. Alas, alas ; he was a cruel son ! 

Worn. He must have been a cruel, wicked man ; 
For to the very last he did distress her 
With unjust, never-ending claims for money. 
The few things that she left of worn-out garments 
Could hardly bury her ! 

Raym. Poor martyred saint ! 

The curse of heaven will light upon her son ! 

Worn. Good sir, it would have melted his hard 
heart 



RAYMOND. 199 

To have seen her die ! Her last prayer was for him — 
A prayer that would have moved a heart of stone. 
She always called him her poor prodigal — 
She was an angel, sir ; a meek, good angel ! 

[she weeps. 

Raym. [giving a feiv gold pieces'] 
Take these ; and may the Almighty Lord of mercy 
Bless thee, for thy compassion to this woman ! 

Worn. Heaven bless you, sir, for I have seven 
small children — 
Seven fatherless little ones ! 

Raym. Alas for you ; 

And I pray God, that of the seven, there be 
No prodigal ! 

[he hurries out. 

Worn. Ah, 't is some man of sorrow — 

Some conscience-stricken prodigal, may be — 
Perchance the son of Madam Berthier ! 
Perchance, say I ? — I know it was her son. 
Christ give him penitence ; for a mighty sin 
Lies on his soul — the blood of that good mother ! 



200 RAYMOND. 

ACT III.— SCENE I. 

The house of Madame Vaumar — she and Clara sitting 
together. 

Mad. V. Thou foolish girl, — with all a woman's 
weakness, 
But not a woman's pride ! Why, this great Count 
Will make an empress of thee ! 

Clara. Dearest mother, 

It is in vain to urge — I will not see him ! 

Mad. V. Not see him ! He, the courtliest gen- 
tleman ; 
High in the Prince's favour ; one that keeps 
The best establishment in all the city — 
Coaches and horses, hounds and liveried servants ; 
Splendour at home, magnificence abroad. 
I '11 lay my life this Count will marry thee ! 

Clara. It moves me not— Indeed I could not wed 
him ; 
Although I know the honour is so great ! 

Mad. V. Not wed him ? Why there 's not another 
woman 
But thinks it heaven, if he but look at her. 

Clara. Their reasoning is not mine ! No, mother, 
no! 
If 't were the Prince, I would not break my faith ! 



RAYMOND. 201 

Hast thou forgot the never-ending kindness ; 
The long-tried zeal ; the goodness of poor Raymond ! 
There was a time when thou didst smile on him ; 
Call him thy friend ; and say that it was heaven 
If he but looked on us ! 

Mad. V. Thou simple child ; 

Wilt never learn the wisdom of the world ! 
Why, he 's been acting the wild prodigal, 
And now has spent his substance. All the city 
Knows he is pennyless ! 

Clara. Kind, generous heart ! 

For us he spent his substance ; and we now, 
Like common worldlings, owing him so much, 
Forsake him in his need. No, mother, no ; 
In good or ill, I never will desert him ! 
My heart is his, and so shall be my hand, 
If e'er I wed ! 

Mad. V. Thou wed a ruined man- — 
A man, for whom the prison doors do gape ! 
Thou marry Raymond ! when Count Seimar woos. 
I will disown thee, Clara, if thou do, — 
And may the curse of poverty cling to you, 
Like cureless leprosy ! 

Clara. Hush, dearest mother ! 

Surely thou dost not know what true love is ! 
To shrine within the heart's core, one dear image ; 
To think of it all day, and all the night ; 



202 RAYMOND. 

To have sweet dreams of it ! Thou dost not know 
What >t is to be beloved ; to see the soul 
Beaming from eyes all tenderness and truth ! 

Mad. V. Wild, raving foolery ! Tell me not of love, 
It is a word of mere conventional use, 
That passes among men like forged coin, 
Current at first ; till time, that all things proves, 
Reveals it of base metal ! 

Clara. You forget 

How Raymond paid the Jew — and how since then 
He has heaped favours on us ! 

Mad. V. Tell me not 

Of favours everlastingly, and gifts ! 
I 'm weary of their memory, as of him. 
To-morrow eve Count Seimar will be here ; 
And I command thee, meet him graciously ; 
And wear thy velvet bodice and thy diamonds ! 

Clara. I '11 wear my diamonds for no man but 
Raymond ! 
But if thou love me, dearest, best of mothers, 
Urge me not thus ! I do not love Count Seimar — 
My heart aches, and my soul is full of sorrow ! 

Mad. V. Let go my hand ! hast thou not heard 
my words ! 
Let go my hand, for I have much to do. 
Thou know'st my will ; nor shall I pardon thee 
If thou dare disobey ! [she goes out. 



RAYMOND. 203 

Clara. 'T is seven days 

Since I beheld his face ; seven weary days — 
And calumny since then, his precious name 
Hath charactered in lies ; and turned men's hearts 
From him — ay, let them turn ; and woman's smile, 
Let it change too — let him become a proverb, 
A word despised and loathed, it matters not — 
To me, he still is Raymond ! Shame with him 
I would prefer, to glory with another ; 
Even were he richer, nobler than Count Seimar ! 
But let me hence, and in my silent chamber 
Nerve my sick heart to meet the morrow's guest, 
If so, I must — yet will I not deceive 
Count Seimar in this matter ! 

[she goes out. 



SCENE II. 

Night — Raymond's chamber, lighted by a lamp ; 
Raymond, in a loose dressing gown, starting from 
the bed on which he had thrown himself : 

The furies were no fiction ! Sad Orestes 
Fled not from land to land from a vain shadow ! 
They are no fiction — would to heaven they were ! 
No ! they are present with me, night and day — 
Spectres of days, and months, and years misspent ; 



204 RAYMOND. 

Of talents wasted — hopes which I have murdered ! 

Too late I know my folly — peace is gone ; 

And hope and self-esteem ; and that calm joy, 

The fruit of virtuous days, and tranquil nights ! 

My friends, the early and the kind, are lost ; 

My cold neglect has broken a mother's heart, 

'Mid shameful, miserable poverty. — 

My lawless life has tarnished a good name ; 

My thriftless cost, has ruined a fair fortune- — 

My sinful course has shattered a strong frame ! 

Men, that I should have scorned in my pure years,, 

Are now my sole companions — thus I 'm fallen ! 

Oh, that I were again a happy boy, 

Conning my book beneath the orchard-trees, 

Without a care from morn to eventide ! 

Where are those lovely visions of my youth — 

Fair fame, and Adeline ; and sons, and daughters, 

Growing around us in my native home — 

Where ? with the things that were — my peace of 

mind, 
My innocence, my health and my good name ! 

[a bell tolls the first hour of the morning. 
Midnight is past — the morning hath begun ; 
My doom will be, one night, without a morning ! 
Millions on millions from the earth have passed 
Unto the eternal day ; but I am one 
Made for the blackness of enduring night ; 



RAYMOND. 205 

A reprobate ! cast by the Eternal Father 
From his great scheme of pardon ; the dear blood 
Of Christ was never shed for my redemption ; 
And if I should bow down and cry for mercy, 
My cry would be a damning blasphemy ! 

[he paces the room in despair ; then throws 
open the window and looks out. 
So shone the moon, so looked the paly stars, 
In the gone years of my pure innocence ! 
'T is even so ! — and this is my birth-night ! 
Alas, alas, and where is that kind mother, 
That made of old, this eve a festival ? 
The solemnest, yet the happiest of the year ! 
Of old it passed not a forgotten time, 
Unnoted, but for some chance circumstance ! 
Of old I had a memory for all joy ; 
And read my Bible, and believed that Christ, 
Blessing the pure in heart, had blessed even me ; 
And that belief brought blessings, like the visits 
Of angels entertained unawares. 
Of old I laid me down to rest at night, 
And said my prayers, and put my trust in God ! 
Of old I had no fears, nor black remorse, 
That sered my soul and withered up my being ; 
Love, peace, and joy, and duty, all fulfilled, 
Made every day a joyful festival ! 



206 RAYMOND. 

Why died I not in that good time of grace; 
In those most blessed days of innocence, 
That knew not sin, and therefore knew not sorrow ? 
[he turns slowly away ; and seeing his 
father's Bible, opens it and reads. 
" I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in 
heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than 
over ninety and nine just persons, who need no 
repentance." 

[he closes the booh, covers his face with 
his hands, and weeps bitterly. A loud 
knocking is heard at his door, and 
Bartolin enters, hurriedly. 
Raym. Villain, how now ! 

Bar. No time is this for wrath ! 

I am but come to warn you against danger. 
Hence with you to your hiding place ! One hour 
From now, and you are in a dungeon ! 
The myrmidons of law have gained access 
Within your doors, and now approach your chamber, 
Armed with authority : fly, fly hence ! 
Or, better still, with me — give me your hand ; 
In wrath we parted, let us meet as friends ! 

Raym. Begone with you ! off with your fawnings 
vile; 
I loathe them as your counsel — get you hence ! 



RAYMOND. 207 

Bar. Even as you list, fair sir ; so fare ye well ! 

[he goes out ; a tumult is heard below — 
Raymond, wrapping himself in a cloak, 
goes out by a private door. 



SCENE III. 

The interior of a gaming house — parties of gentlemen 
sit drinking wine in various parts of the room, others 
are playing at dice ; Raymond, pale and with a con- 
tracted brow, playing with Count Seimar ; Bartolin 
stands apart, as one of the servants of the establish- 
ment, observing Raymond, who has played all the 
evening with ill-luck. 

Count S. [taking up money\ Despair not, Sir — 
Fortune's a fickle goddess ; 
The next turn will be yours, " faint heart ne'er won :" 
You know what says the proverb, " gold nor ladies." 
Bar. [aside~\ Most sapient Raymond ; bible-read- 
ing fool ! 
Is this the end of your religious fervour ? 

[he looks at a small billet. 
Within the dainty folds of this smooth paper 
Lie words which, like some cabalistic signs, 
Have fear and death in them ! Ha, ha ! Count Seimar; 



208 RAYMOND. 

Thou keepest carelessly a lady's secret, 
Else hadst thou never dropped this perfumed paper ! 
\_Raymond again loses the game ; he flings 

down his last gold, hurls the dice upon 

the floor, and starts up with furious 

gestures. 
Ten thousand curses fall upon all play ! 
Ten thousand curses on the dupes of it ! 
I am a ruined man, beyond retrieve — 
I am a cursed, ruined, wretched man ! \_pours out wine. 
[Aside] Let this assist my purpose — fool, fool, fool ! 
Most senseless fool ! But let me drink, and die ! 

[he drinks — Bartolin goes out ; Raymond 

throws on his cloak and rushes out also. 



SCENE IV. 

The porch, leading into the street ; enter Raymond, like 
one beside himself, with his hand on his dagger. 

Bartolin. [presenting the billet] This sir, to yours, 
but to none other hand ; 
Thus were my orders, absolute — Good night ! 

Raym. [reads'] " My daughter has consented to 
be yours ; we will expect you at the appointed hour. 
Raymond is a pennyless prodigal. Adieu." 

[turning to the address, 
" To the most honourable Count Seimar." 



RAYMOND. 209 

And thus writes Madame Vaumar to Count Seimar ! 

And this is Clara's faith ! Oh most accursed — 

Oh most unkind, perfidious of deceivers ! 

Some strange mistake has given to me the billet, 

Intended for my rival. But 't is well — 

The veil at length is torn from my delusion ! 

I am a pennyless prodigal ! ha, ha ! 

A pennyless prodigal ! and they who robbed me, 

Make this the plea for my abandonment ! 

I am their jest no doubt, their merriment ! 

A prodigal ! Count Seimar is a saint, 

And shall this night make elsewhere reckoning — 

And Madame Vaumar shall hear news to-night, 

Other than of her daughter's marriage-day ! 

[he wraps his cloak around him, and walks 
sullenly away. 



SCENE V. 

Midnight — a dark and lonely street in the suburbs ; 
enter count seimar, singing in a low voice. 

Come, pledge me in this cup of wine, 

And let us have a joyful night, 
Thou hast my heart, thy heart is mine — 

Why should we part ere morning light ! 
Come, pledge me in this brimming cup — 

p 



210 RAYMOND. 

Raymond [rushing upon him with his dagger] 
And she consented to be yours to-night ! 
Yours, traitor ! take you this — and this — and this, 
For a bride's portion ! [he stabs him many times~\. 
Count S. [drawing his weapon] Help ! 'gainst a 
murderer ! 
Ah, villain ! is it you ? 

Help ! help ! or 't is too late ! 

[he falls. 
Raym. [striking him again] Ye said I was a pro- 
digal ! ay, ay — see then 
I '11 be as prodigal of thrusts as gold ! 

Count S. [faintly] Oh heavens, I am a murdered 
man ; and none 
Are near to help ! 

For Christ's sake, give me help ! 
God pardon me ! for I have been a sinner ! 

Watchmen, [in the distance] We hear the cry — 
and help is now at hand ! 

[Raymond sheaths his dagger ', and passes 
off in an opposite direction. 
Watchmen. The voice was in this quarter; and 
see there 
Lies the poor murdered — yonder flies the murderer ! 
[part pursue Raymond; others surround 
Count Seimar. 
1st W. Ah, what a horrid pool of blood is here ! 



RAYMOND. 211 

2nd W. Run, call a doctor ! time may not be lost ! 

3rd Watchman, runs off. 
1st W. [kneeling down by the Count] A doctor will 
be here in lialf a minute — 
In the meantime give us your name, good sir, 
And we will call your friends, or take you to them. 
Count S. [very faintly] I am Count Seimar ! all 
the city knows me — 
My murderer is one Berthier, a base man ! 
2nd W. What does he say ? 

1st W. It is the great Count Seimar ! 

2nd W. Oh, woful chance ! 

1st W. The prince will pay us richly 

For help we give — let 's bear him to the palace ! 

[they attempt to raise him. 
Count S. It is too late — too late ! let me die here ! 

[he dies. 
1st W. If you have any message for the living 
Speak it within my ear, most noble sir. 

[he listens for some time. 
He 's dead ! alas, all 's over with him now ! 
2nd W. Ah, what a cruel murder- 
God have mercy 
Upon his soul ! 

Enter 3rd watchman, and doctor. 

1st W. He is stone-dead, poor soul ! 

p 2 



212 RAYMOND. 

2nd W. And 'tis no other than the great Count 

Seimar ! 
Doctor [after examining the body\ It is too late ! 
there is no life within him — 
He has had seven wounds ; the least were mortal ! 
Alas poor Count ! But call ye the police, 
And let the base assassin be pursued ! 
And this deformed body, carry ye 
Unto the palace. 

[they raise the body, and all move off. 



SCENE VI. 

Midnight — savage glen among mountains — thunder and 
lightning, with furious gusts of wind. 

Enter Raymond, in a monk's habit. 
For these seven days, like an ill-omened thing 
Skulking in dens, and lonesome, hideous caves, 
I have sustained my life with roots and herbs, 
And quenched my thirst with water of the rock ; 
Meet sustenance for a vile murderer ! 
Thus wandered Cain, through melancholy years, 
A fugitive and vagabond ! I too, 
Thrust out from man, and the kind charities 
That humanize, bear with me a black curse 
That makes my being an enduring death ! 

[the lightnivg strikes a tree before him. 



RAYMOND. 213 

Death is a-nigh me ! would that the fierce bolt, 
That now has smitten yon branched, vigorous oak 
From its rock-fortress, like a slender reed, 
Crashing and shivering to the vale below, 
Had smitten me in its stead, and in a moment 
Ended my woe ! The undefined future, 
Once so terrific in its mystery, 
Hath not more terror now than hath the present, 
In its o'ermastering consciousness of guilt ! 

[the storm rages more fearfully ; trees are 
torn up, loose crags tumbled into the 
glen, and sounds of the gathering tem- 
pest are heard in all the hollows of the 
mountains. 
Even like this outward tempest are the pangs 
Of merciless remorse ; but to the one 
Succeeds a calm — no calm succeeds the other ! 

At nightfall I descried a lonely hut, 
Scarcely discernible from rocks and stones, 
But for its roof of black and shaggy furze, 
And the wind- scattered smoke that shewed the eye 
'T was human habitation. Here about, 
Among these crags, it lay. Another flash 
Will shew it through the darkness — 

Ah, 't is here ! 
Gloomy and lone, a place of guilt it seems, 
Yet will I enter, for I wildly long 



214 RAYMOND. 

To see again a human countenance ! 

[he knocks at the door, which is opened by 
an Old Man. 
Raym. Father, I crave the shelter of your roof 
From this night's storm ! 

Old Man. Ay, enter, thou art welcome. 

[he goes in. 

SCENE VII. 

The interior of a miserable shed, lighted only by a 
small wood-fire, — the Old Man and Raymond sit by 
the fire. 

Old Man. Com'st from the city ? 

Raym. Seven days since, I left it. 

Old Man. Thou heard' st then of one Berthier, 
how he murdered 
The great Count Seimar ? 

Raym. Yes, I heard of it — 

But I just left the city as it happened. 

Old Man. Thou didst not hear then, how from 
sanctuary 
He made escape, in habit of a monk ; 
Nor of the damning stain he has affixed 
Unto his memory, black enough without it ? 

Raym. Good father, no ; what is 't ? — I know it not ! 

Old Man. Why, that fair thing, who risked her 
life for his. 



RAYMOND. 215 

As she had done her good name heretofore, 
Was found next morning dead ! 

Raym. Dead ! say'st thou, father ? 

Old Man. Ay, on the altar stone, which of her 
blood 
Will ever keep the stain — the altar 
Where he found sanctuary — and in the city 
'T is thought he murdered her ! 

Raym. That did he not ! 

Old Man, Art of his council then ? Perchance 
thou know'st him — 
Perchance didst furnish that poor faithful girl, 
With means of his deliverance ! 

Raym, [after pacing the room several times, and 
struggling with his emotions. 
Father, my limbs are weary — let me rest 
I pray thee, on this straw. 

Old Man, Rest, if thou can ! 

[the Old Man lights a small lamp, and 
places it so as to throw the light on 
the countenance of Raymond, and then 
sits down beside him, 
Raym. Father, I thank thee for thy courtesy ; 
But thy lamp's light I need not, and I fain 
Would slumber unobserved. 

Old Man, A monarch's taste, 

Who unobserved would hold his meditations ! 



216 RAYMOND. 

Raym. Old man, a mighty sorrow weighs my soul : 
Thou hast not passed thy three-score years and ten, 
Without experience of some human pangs- 
Respect my sorrow then, and give me peace ! 

Old Man. Sorrow, the wise have said, is born of sin ; 
And peace lies nowhere but within the grave. 
Raym. Alas ! thy words are true. 
Old Man. Can'st not repent 1 — 

This is another way of getting peace, 
And he who asketh shall receive, 't is said. 

Raym. Some sins there are, repentance cannot cure! 
Old Man. Yet they are few — 't is a long catalogue 
Of pardonable sins. The dire offences 
Scarce number seven — thus, the sin 'gainst know- 
ledge ; — 
'Gainst parents disobedience, which shall bring 
Their grey hairs to the grave with bitter sorrow; — 
Luring the innocent to black perdition ; — 
Denying God, whether by word or deed ; — 
And lastly, doing murder — these are deadly. 
But who of them is guiltless, need not fear — 
And these, my son, thou can'st not have committed — 
Thou art too young for such black sins as these. 
Raym. God knows my sin — I do confess to none. 
Old Man. Thou dost belie thy habit — for ye teach 
That a great virtue lyeth in confession. 

Raym. Cease, cease to trouble me — leave me alone ! 



RAYMOND. 217 

Old Man. From me far be it to disturb thy soul, 
I will withdraw. [he goes into an inner room. 

Raym. My sins are those he named — 

Mine are those deadly sins — there is no pardon — 

With God there is no pardon — nor with man. 

And she dead ! — then what boots it to live on ! 

I am an outcast from the face of man — 

Caves are my hiding-places, and my food 

The miserable product of a soil 

Cursed for some ancient sin ! Why should I live ? 

None love me on the earth — my crimes have made 

My being desolation, and brought ruin 

Upon the faithfullest spirit ] Let me die ! 

[he takes a small phial from his bosom. 

Misery did arm me thus against myself— 

I drink to death. Death, be a gracious friend 

Unto a wretched soul that flies to thee ! 

[he drinks. 

Soul, gird thyself, a journey lies before thee, 

From which no human voice can call thee back ! 

[he lies down, closes his eyes, and remains 

for some minutes motionless. Meantime 

the Old Man comes forth as Bartolin, 

and stands beside him. 

Raym. Oh, hast thou found me here, mine enemy ! 

Bar. Thou sought'st thyself the shelter of my roof! 

Raym. Lying dissembler, thou hast fooled my soul ! 



218 RAYMOND. 

May heaven avenge my blackest sins upon thee, 
Thou tempter unto evil ! 

Death is with me — 
The dimness of the grave doth seize on me ! 

\_he falls back. 
[Aside.] My enemy shall not behold the pangs 
That rack my feeble being. I will die 
In rigid, groanless silence ! 

Bar. His hair is white, 

The furrows of old age are on his cheeks, 
And yet his years are few — oh, sin and sorrow, 
What foes are ye to manly strength and beauty ! — 
See, his clenched hands — his rigid, stone-like brow — 
His grinding jaws, and those thick- starting dews, 
Like water-drops ; these are the outward signs 
Of the great mortal struggle ! 

Raym. [opening his eyes, which have a glazed, wild 
look, and speaking like one in a dream] 
I hear their mournful voices ! my heart faints — 
Alas, alas, I am undone — undone ! 
Darkness is with me, but mine ears are open ! 
Oh, was a human soul of so great worth 
That angels mourn for it ? My God, my God ! 
Hark once again — there is a wail in heaven ! 

[the tempest without gains strength, and 
low wailing sounds arc heard, as of 
spiritual voices. 



RAYMOND. 219 



Mourn, mourn celestial spirits, 
Angels of God, who have your thrones on high ! 
O cease your triumph, bright-eyed cherubim ; 
Sons of the morning, let your light be dim ; 
And let there go through heaven a wailing cry ! 

One that was meant of your bright host to be, 
Hath fallen, fallen ! 
A human soul hath lost its heavenward way, 
The cruel tempter hath received his prey ! 
O wretched soul, new-born to misery, 
How art thou fallen ! 
Alas, how art thou fallen ! 

[the countenance of Raymond becomes more 
ghastly, the convulsions of death succeed, 
and he expires with a deep groan. Bar- 
tolin walks out in silence ; and, after a 
pause, the hut is filled with a strain of sad 
and low music, as if accompanied by the 
following words : 

A song of mourning let each one take up ! 

Take up a song of woe — 
The spirit is gone forth to the unknown, 

Yet mightier pangs to know ! 



220 RAYMOND. 

Oh thou, that wast so beautiful in youth, 

How is thy beauty dimmed ! 

We that in gladness hymned 
The kindness of thy early love and truth, 

Shall we not mourn for thee, 

Lost from our company, 

Oh erring human soul ! 

Take up a song of woe, 
A song of mourning let each one begin ! 
The spirit is gone forth, 

Stained with mortal sin ! 
Oh star, shorn of thy beams, 

How is thy glory gone, 
Since from the living streams 

Thou burst, a shining one ! 
Oh star, shorn of thy beams 
In blackness of thick darkness wandering now, 
Through night that has no day, 
Through pain that has no stay ; 
O'er seas that have no shore, 
Wandering for evermore. 
Lost, lost, art thou ! 

Oh spirit, vext with fears, by tempests tost, 
Oh new-born heir of unthought misery ! 

Long shall we mourn for thee, 
From our bright company, 
For ever, ever lost ! 



221 



The cruel nature of Achzib was unmoved by the 
moral ruin before him ; in him was neither pity nor 
remorse. 

" As the tree falleth," said he, " so it lyeth ; and 
there is no repentance in the grave ! " While he 
thus spoke, the Pastor entered. " Grant me the 
shelter of thy roof," said he, " for one hour ; and 
when the storm hath abated, I will pursue my jour- 
ney." 

" Whither dost thou journey ? " inquired Achzib. 

" I seek a lost sheep of my Father's fold," re- 
plied the old man sorrowfully. 

" Behold ! " said Achzib, lifting the cloak from 
the face of the dead, " him whom thou seekest — 
Raymond — who hath even now committed self- 
murder ! " 

" My son ! my son ! " exclaimed the Pastor, fall- 
ing upon his knees beside the body. "Alas, my 



222 

son, hast thou gone forth to the eternal judgment 
with this mortal sin upon thy soul ! " and he buried 
his face in his hands, and wept like a woman. 

" This man ' must have been dear unto thee ! " 
said Achzib, interrupting the Pastor's sorrow. 

" Oh!" replied he, rising, "the human soul is 
very precious ; and this man was dear to me, even as 
a son ! " 

" He hath confessed to me much and grievous 
sin," said Achzib. 

" Alas, he was a sinner, but I had hoped the day 
of grace was not over ;" replied the Pastor, — " he was 
a great sinner, yet was not his nature evil ; remorse 
followed crime, and heart- stinging repentance. God 
had not wholly abandoned him, and he who knows 
how we are tempted, knows also how to forgive ! " 

" Methinks," said Achzib, " thou wouldst excuse 
the sinner; thou wouldst destroy the distinction 
between virtue and vice/' 

Nay, nay," replied the Pastor, " I know we are all 
sinners, and this young man the chiefest of them ; 
but I dare not limit the mercy of God. I remember 
the thief on the cross ; the publicans and sinners of 
the Gospel ; and I hoped that though he should not 
have found pardon from the justice of man, he 
might yet have found pardon with heaven." — And 
again the aged man covered his face and wept. 



223 

" I will leave thee to thy meditations/' said Achzib, 
and went out. The Pastor combated his emotion, 
and approached the dead ; he lifted the already- 
whitened locks from the young man's forehead. 
" Oh my son, my son!" exclaimed he, in the words 
of the royal mourner, " would God, I had died for 
thee ! ' Father, which art in heaven/ " said the old 
man, falling on his knees, " prayer availeth not for 
the dead ; thy justice hath determined what is meet : 
but oh, by the tears our Lord shed for Lazarus ; 
by the bloody sweat, the trembling spirit, and the 
mortal agony, I pray thee, if it be possible, pity and 
forgive ! Oh, let the blood shed on Mount Calvary 
avail somewhat — let the prayer for the murderers 
avail — ' Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do !' 

" If there was good in him, though less than an 
atom, remember it — I know thou wilt, for thou art 
merciful ; and even in the midst of despair, I bless 
thee. I bless thee, for the remorse which lived in 
the heart of this sinner — I bless thee, for the suffering 
he endured — the poverty, the shame, the hunger, the 
nakedness, which w T ould not let him forget thee! — 
I bless thee, that thou didst not leave his sin unpun- 
ished in this world ! These grey hairs, this defaced 
youth ; pain of body and anguish of mind, — these, 
oh Father ! I will accept as tokens of mercy. Thou 



224 

knowest the strength of temptation, thou knowest 
the weakness of human nature. Oh, pity and for- 
give ! 

The Pastor rose from his knees ; the cold grey 
light of the morning struggled faintly through the 
small window; but Achzib had not yet returned. 
Without waiting for his coming, the Pastor composed 
as well as he might, the rigidly convulsed limbs, and 
prepared the body for interment. Near the hut 
he found a hollow in the bosom of the mountain, 
scooped by nature as if for a grave ; and made strong 
by Christian love, thither he bore the dead. No 
man witnessed the deed : and the departing Pastor 
exclaimed, " I leave thee to man's oblivion, and 
God's mercy/' 



Achzib was once more among men, looking for a 
victim. He heard of wars, and rumours of wars. 
He heard of a tyrannous ruler, and an oppressed 
people, and he said, " I will go there/' 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 



PERSONS. 

PHILIP OF MAINE. 

THE LORD OF MAINE, HIS FATHER. 

ACHZIB, A STRANGER ; AFTERWARDS GASTON, THE 

PATRIOT. 

THE LORD OF KRONBERG. 

IDA KRONBERG, HIS DAUGHTER. 

BERTHA, HER COUSIN. 

ARNOLD, HENRY, CONRAD, AND ROLAND, LEADERS 

OF THE PEOPLE. 
MOTHER SCHWARTZ, THE FORGE-WOMAN ; JAN, HER 

SON, AND HANS CLEF, LEADERS OF THE RABBLE. 

COUNTS NICHOLAS, SEGBERT, AND FABIAN, ADHERENTS 

OF LORD KRONBERG. 

SOLDIERS, AND OTHER SUBORDINATE CHARACTERS. 



ACT I.— SCENE I. 

A magnificent room in the Castle of Kronberg. 

Enter the lord of kronberg, and philip of maine. 

Lord of Kronberg, Good, good ! you seek alliance 

with my house ! 
Philip of Maine. 1 do, my lord. 
Lord of K. What next, fair sir ! 

q 2 



228 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Phil, of M. The honour 

Of your fair daughter's hand I ask, nought more. 
Lord of K. Nought to maintain her on ! no mar- 
riage dower — 
No broad lands, as a daughter's appanage ? 

Phil, of M. I asked her, for herself ! Broad lands 
and dower 
Came not within my count. 

Lord of K. True, true, most true ! 

The heir of Maine, doth count so little gold, 
He wots not of its worth ! A wife, young man, 
Would add some items to your yearly charges ! 

Phil, of M. Too well I know the fortunes of our 
house 
Are not, what once they were — scoff not, my lord, 
An emperor's daughter has allied with us ; 
And 'tis an ancient, honourable house : 
I will retrieve its fortunes ! good my lord, 
My youth is in its prime — the wars are open — 
J T was by the strong right hand, we won our honours ! 
Lord of K. Wouldst be a wooer, ay ? wouldst 
woo my daughter ? 
Art worth a sword? canst draw one? canst thou 

ride ? 
Canst hunt? canst hold a hawk ? canst read ? canst 

write ? 
I wot not of a roof to your old house, 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 229 

And yet thou'dst woo — wouldst take a wife, forsooth! 
The noble Ida Kronberg ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Phil, of M. My lord, I do not take a taunt 
unmoved ; 
Nor do I ask a favour undeserved — 
Were your fair daughter, ten times nobler still, 
I do but ask my equal ! 

Lord of K. Upstart fool ! 

Wouldst match thyself with me ! 

Phil, of M. Nor have I asked 

This honour uninvited ! Your own mouth 
Swore to vouchsafe whate'er my tongue should crave, 
For certain trivial service, at my rating ; 
At yours, — for loyalty beyond all price ! 

Lord of K. What ! dost thou ask my daughter as 
the payment 
Of such poor service, as a peasant lad 
Had done for half a guilder ! 

Phil. ofM. Good, my lord, 

If you forget the service, so do I — 
But not that we are foes ! 

Lord of K. Audacious rebel, 

Wouldst beard me to my face ! I tell thee, traitor, 
I have mine eyes upon thee, and thy father — 
I know wherefore ye harbour in your walls 
The disaffected rabble — why thou comest 
To ask alliance with me, then to beard me ! 



230 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Phil, of M. My lord, this quarrel was not of my 

seeking. 
Lord of K. Too long I have foreborne ! I know 
your views- — 
I know what your ambition lusteth after : 
Words you can give, where words weigh more than 

gold; 
Can stir up the fierce spirit of the people ; 
Call them oppressed, poor, wronged, and injured 
people ! 
Phil, of M. I came not now as pleader of their 
cause, 
Or, to your face, I 'd tell you, you 're a tyrant ! 
Think but of those poor workers in the loom, 
All dying in your streets, who might have earned 
A decent maintenance, save for your edict — 
Listen to their demands, they are but just ! 

Lord of K. Wouldst thou dictate this, that, and the 
other to me ? — 
Demand my daughter first, then rule the state ? 
Phil of M. Who 're they that cry for bread morn- 
ing and night, 
Whom you refuse a morsel ? Your poor burghers, 
Whose fathers fought for you ! They are not stones, 
That they should not complain ! 

Lord of K. 'T is such as you, 

With busy meddling, that disturb their souls! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 231 

But get thee hence ! and let me counsel thee — 
Go marry thee, to some poor plodder's daughter 
Will keep your house in order, mend thy hose, 
And patch the old man's doublet ! 

Phil, of M. Name him not; 

That noble, good old lord, or by the gods, 
I shall forget myself ! 

Lord, of K. Hence with thee, prating fool ! 

Hence with thee, ere I summon one, whose trade 
Is to chastise young insolence like thine ! 

Phil, of M. A day may come, when we will count 
for this ! [he goes out. 

Lord of K. And this is he, to whom the people 
look 
As to a new Messiah ! Heaven and earth! 
Am I to stand girt round with armed men, 
And thus be threatened ? — What are dungeons for, 
But to confine such rebels ! Out upon me, 
To let such meddlers loose ! Marry my daughter ! 
By Jove, I '11 marry him to the strongest chains 
Within my deepest dungeon ! 

Those old dues, 
Which as my vassals they have long withstood, 
I will demand, and lay strong hold on them 
As forfeit of the soil ! Go to, I '11 do it ; 
And come what will, I '11 crush this house of Maine ! 

[he goes out. 



232 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

SCENE II. 

Ida's apartment — Ida and Bertha together — Bertha 
has a bunch of lilies of the valley in her hand. 

Ida. Nay, blame him not ! Why need he shun to 
ask 
My hand in marriage openly ? He 's brave, 
My father knows he is ; and his descent 
Is noble as mine own ; and this adventure 
Hath given such fair advantage to his suit 
That he may freely, fearlessly avow it ! 

Berth. He has avowed, and is a fool for 's pains I 
For what must he come here to make a quarrel — 
To spoil the daintiest romance that e'er 
Gladdened the dull life of a castled lady ! 
I told thee how 'twould be — I knew my uncle 
Better than thou or he did ! 

Ida. But he swore 

That he should have his asking, be 't what 'twould ; 
And that their ancient hate should be forgotten : — 
I know he '11 not gainsay 't ! 

Berth. He will ! he has ! 

And even now has sworn his utter ruin — 
It is one thing to promise while in danger, 
But a far different to fulfil in safety. 
There is a gulph of hate, wider than ever, 
That sunders you, which love can ne'er o'erpass ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 233 

Ida. Nay, Bertha, nay, Philip will ne'er desert 
me! 

Berth. Philip hath gone from hence as black as 
night ;— 
I never saw rage look more terrible — 
I met him on the stair. 

Ida. What said he to thee ? 

Berth. He saw me not, nor spoke, but stalked on, 
muttering ; 
And while his eyes flashed fire, he flung these flowers 
Under his very feet, as if they were 
The reason of his anger. 

Ida. Not those flowers ! 

Berth. Ay, but he did, as if their touch defiled 
him ! 

Ida. Wei] then, it is an augury of ill ! 
Those flowers were mine, and he knew how I loved 

them. 
I think I never told thee why I loved 
The lily of the valley. 

Berth. No, sweet cousin. 

Ida. I '11 tell thee now, it suiteth the occasion. 
'Twixt Maine and Kronberg was there ever feud— 
Our love seemed almost an unnatural thing ; 
Our fathers hated, like their sires of old ; 
And who was strongest, trod the other down. 
As we do them. Their line was in decay ; 



234 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

The ancient state had fallen from their house ; 
Nought but its name remained ; my father saw it, 
And triumphed in their fall. The Lord of Maine 
Hated my father with no lesser hate ; 
And each decaying vestige of his greatness, 
Provoked a curse upon us. Strange it was, 
Our fathers hating thus, our mothers loved, 
And were each other's dear, though secret friend. 
And yet they were so different ! 

My sweet mother 
Was a mild, delicate lady, meek and timid — 
She had hard measure dealt her by her husband ; 
Alas, that I should say 't, and yet 'twas so ! 
She had no friend to counsel or console her, 
Save Philip's mother ; and to her she opened 
Her inmost, bleeding heart. Oh, how I loved 
The Lady of Maine for weeping with my mother !- 
She was a Lutheran ; a grave, stern woman, 
Of a majestic presence ; such a one 
As would have kept a fortress through a siege, 
And died ere she had yielded ! — I can see her, 
In her black velvet robe, and hooded coif, 
Sitting beside my mother, and out-pouring 
Her eloquent consolations. I then wondered 
What they could mean — I understood them after ! 
And I remember, from my earliest childhood, 
Whene'er my father went unto the chase, 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 235 

We paid our secret visits ; — he ne'er knew 

What a great love there was between our mothers. 

And what a gloomy place was that of Maine ! 

Silent, and full of old, decaying things ; 

Old pictures, and old tarnished furniture. 

And I remember roaming up and down 

Its gloomy halls with Philip, then a boy ; 

And all the legends old, he used to tell me, 

Of dames, and warrior-lords, and armed ghosts, 

Live in my memory yet. Ah, 't was unkind 

To fling those flowers away! — But I've not told 

thee 
Wherefore I love those flowers. 

Berth. Well, tell me now. 

Ida. My gentle mother died, 

And I was a bereaved child indeed ! — 
The Lady of Maine came never to our house, 
E 'en in my mother's life, and now but seldom 
It was jny chance to meet her ; yet she loved me ; 
And when we met, from her maternal heart 
Poured counsel out, and blessing, which sustained 
My orphaned spirit till we met again. 
She was my second mother, well beloved ! 
Philip and I ne'er met for several years ; 
Until one eve, as I was wandering out, 
He stood before me, — not the merry boy, 
But the tall, earnest man — so like his mother I 



236 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Ah, gentle cousin, a little moment's space ; 

The glancing of an eye ; one spoken word, 

Decides our destiny ! We had been friends, 

Long-parted friends, and with warm hearts we met ! — 

He brought me flowers — flowers of that very kind, 

A token from his mother, who e'en then 

Lay at the point of death ! Sweet flowers are they, 

Which my poor mother loved, and used to gather 

From out their garden, for they grew not here. 

He knew wherefore I loved them ; — and since then 

They have been flowers that symbolled love between 

us. 
Ah, was it not unkind to fling them hence ? 
His mother died — and we two wept together. 
But oh, what bliss grew out of that great sorrow ! — 
Meetings at morn, at noon, at eventide ! 
What precious hopes of ending that old hate 
By our new love ! My father knew it not — 
Heaven pardon me for that sweet crime of love ! 

Berth. Why risk so dear a stake upon one throw ? 

Ida. My father knows his worth, and the strong 
hold 
He has upon the people ; 't were unwise, 
In these bad times, to make a foe of Philip. 

Berth. Hark, hark, my uncle calleth to the chase ! 

Ida. It is a cheerful voice, I '11 not believe 
He is an angered, Bertha. Let us go ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 237 

Berth, [_aside] The deepest waters ever are the 
stillest ! [they go out. 



SCENE III. 

A desolate room in the Castle of Maine — the Lord of 
Maine and a stranger 'partaking refreshment. 

Lord of M, Yes, sir, three centuries back our 
house held sway- 
As princes in this land ; lineally descended 
From the good Emperor Albert : — Three descents 
Give us an emperor's daughter. My grandsire, 
The child of this alliance, was accounted 
The first man of his age : in council great ; 
A valiant soldier, and a statesman wise. 

Strang, That was the celebrated John of Maine. 

Lord of M- The same ! all Europe knew him ; 
. every state 
Had cause to bless him, save the single state 
Which was his patrimony ; small enough, 
And yet a fair domain, though all too small 
For a soul large as his. Hence 't was involved 
In that great debt which dragged it to the earth, 
Like the wild vine which winds itself about 
Some stately forest-tree, and bows it down ; 
Upon whose ruin springs a monstrous growth — ■ 
A loathed, fungus -growth, poisonous and rank ! 



238 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Strang. The House of Kronberg, didst thou plainly 
speak, 
Thou 'dst liken to this thing. 

Lord of M. I name no names ! — 

But eat ; — thou 'rt freely welcome ! This poor land 
Hath many weary wanderers who lack bread. 
Eat then, my friend ; there are not many roofs 
That dare give strangers welcome : — 't is coarse 

fare, 
But what my son and I, and our poor household 
Find palatable. 

Strang. Then, thou hast a son ? 

Lord of M. A fair young man ; some two and 
twenty years 
May be his age ; the sole child of my life. 
A fair young man, the hope of my grey hairs ; 
I 've trained him in all arts that fit a noble, 
Hawking and hunting, and his weapon's use ; 
And nature has endowed him like a prince — 
I J d match him against any ! Here he comes — 
Judge for thyself; I've travelled in my time, 
And know what nobles should be. 

Enter philip : he throws down his cap without noticing 
the stranger. 

I 've a guest, 
Philip ; I have a guest, thou see'st him not ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 239 

Phil. I crave your pardon, I observed him not ! 
Lord of M. Where hast thou ridden this morn- 
ing ? — to the chase ? 
Phil. Am I a child to have my actions questioned ? 

Enter hildebrand. 

Hild. Alas, my lord, the horse you have brought 
in 
All in a foaming sweat, trembling each joint, 
Has dropped down dead ; — it has been over-ridden — 
And 't is our only horse — none have we left ; 
And 'twas so lean ; the carcass will bring nothing ! 

Phil. The devil take the horse ! 

Strang, [aside] A proper youth ! 

I' faith, he does the old man's schooling credit ! 

Lord of M. [aside to Philip] 'T is a strange mood 
is on thee ; all unmeet 
For stranger eyes to witness ! Pray bethink thee, 
Thou art no brawler in the public streets. 

Phil. I know not what I am ! 

Lord of M. [to the Stranger] Pardon me, friend, 
And hold it not uncourteous, if I crave 
Your absence o 

Strang. Ay, my lord, it is unmeet 

A dog should look into a noble's face 
If his shoe pinch ! 

Phil. How ! dost thou prate again ? 



240 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Strang, [to the Lord of M.~] You did propose that 
I should judge myself 
Of your son's breeding ; 'tis a proper youth ! 
I 'd match him against any ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Phil. Out with thee, hound ! Out, or thou shalt 

be gagged ! 
Strang. Farewell ! But, as the ghost spoke unto 
Brutus, 
1 '11 meet with thee again at Philippi ! 

[he goes out. 
Lord of M. For shame ! He was a poor man, and 
a stranger ! 
Thou hast abashed thy father ; and God knows 
It was in honest pride I boasted of thee ! 

Phil. I thank thee not, to make a boast of me ! 
Lord of M. My son, I cannot understand thy 

humour ! 
Phil. Why could' st not breed me up as poor men 
are? 
Teach me to cringe, to stoop, and humbly beg? 
Why could'st not put a hatchet in my hand, 
And train my will to use it ? What ami? 
Noble ! and yet who may not match with nobles ! 
Lord of M. What, hast thou at a tourney ridden 
again, 
And been insulted for thy poverty — 
Again been jeered at for a faded doublet? 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 241 

Phil. No ! 

Lord of M. Then pray what is this arrant foolery ? 
Phil. If thou will hear it — hear it ! I have been 
To ask Lord Kronberg's daughter's hand in mar- 
riage ! 
Lord of M. Thou ask the Lord of Kronberg's 
daughter's hand ! 
Good heavens preserve me ! Went and bowed thyself 
Unto that hateful tyrant — asked his daughter ! 

Phil. Well, what of that ? Why need' st thou chafe 
it o'er 
As if 'twere strange that I should love a woman? 
Lord of M. Were there no women in the world 
but her — 
That thou must go and be a cringing fool 
To that man of all others ! 

Phil. And that man 

Shall bow himself to me, and humbly sue 
That I would wed his daughter ! and by heaven 
I will not wed her then ! I '11 have revenge ! 

Lord of M. Peace with these hectoring threats, 
thou boasting fool ! 
What can he do that's poor and powerless ? 

Phil. Thou shouldst have made me base ; have 
crushed my spirit, 
And shaped me out some humbler path to tread I 



242 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Lord of M. I never bade thee ask a wife from 
Kronberg, 
And bow thyself to him, that he might spurn thee ! 
Thou hast abased thyself, and me in thee ; 
Thou art a servile dog, and I could beat thee ! 

Phil. Stand back, old man ! — I 'm in no mood of 
patience — 
Stand back, my father, and provoke me not ! 

[he goes out. 
Lord of M. This was the maddest folly e'er I 
heard of! 
He ask the hand of haughty Kronberg' s daughter! 
Shew to that hated house our poverty ! 
Present himself a wooer in that garb ! 
Ride on that starveling jade to ask a wife 
From the proud line of Kronberg ! 

Enter hildebrand. 
Hild. Good, my lord, 

Here have I brought the poor beast's shoes. They '11 

make 
A little towards her price. May 't please you, sir, 
To walk to the court yard ? 

[he goes out. 
Ijord of M. Ay, the poor beast ! 

And this disaster comes of that fool's wooing ; 

[he follows Hildebrand. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 243 



SCENE IV. 



Several days afterwards — an unfrequented road near 
the city — Evening. 

Enter the stranger, dressed in the costume of the 
country, as gaston the patriot. 

I owe him payment for his railing words ! 
And with full interest will I pay him back 
Every indignity ! He shall be mine — 
Body and soul, in life and death, be mine ! 
I '11 work him to my purpose ; for in him 
Lie elements of ruin — pride, ambition, 
And hatred and revenge, glossed o'er or hidden 
By a fair shew of patriotic virtues — 
The very man to be the people's idol ! 

Enter philip. 

But here he comes ! Welcome, young heir of Maine ; 
My musings were of thee ! 

Phil. And what of me ? 

Art thou not he that with a braggart's threat 
Defied me heretofore ? 

Gast. Thy father's guest. 

I owe thee grateful thanks ; but unto thee, 
The patriot-saviour, I owe humble service ! 

Phil. I am not used to service — none I need ! 

r2 



244 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Gast. But I will serve thee as thou wott'st not of — 
Give thee revenge on him thy soul has cursed ! 

Phil. Did I not call thee braggart ? Let me go ! 

Gast. Nay, then against thy will I '11 serve thee — 
listen ! 
Like thee, I 've sworn a patriot's deep revenge 
Upon the house of Kronberg — wherefore so, 
It matters not, for whom has he not wronged ? 
And 'tis not I alone have sworn revenge, 
Nor thou and I— nor twenty more than us — 
But twenty times a thousand in this league 
Are banded heart and hand ! 

Phil, [aside] Yet in despite 

Of my good angel I must listen to him ! 

Gast. Hear 'st thou me? 

Phil. I do, what say'st thou farther ? 

Gast. Thou hast dwelt in these sequestered glens 
of Maine, 
And hast not known that the great earth went round ! 
Get thee among the people ; to the herds 
In the remotest dells, and hear them talk ; 
They are more of men than thou ! 

Phil. In words, perhaps. 

Gast. Stand by the vine -dressers upon the hills, 
And they will be thy teachers ! Ask the mothers, 
The earliest words her lisping boy shall speak, 
And she will tell thee, curses on the oppressor ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 245 

If these arouse thee not, go to the city, 
And hear the meagre workman at his loom — 
There are who call his muttered musings treason ! 

Phil. All this I know — I know they curse the 
tyrant, 
And they have need. But how know 'st thou they 

league 
Together for revolt ? 

Gast. I am of them ! 

Have bound myself with them — have sworn with 

them, 
To see the downfall of the house of Kronberg ! 
Hast thou a heart to do as thou hast sworn, 
The path is open to thee ; fortune offers 
A golden opportunity ; and thou, 
If thou art the generous patriot that thou seem'st, 
May'st make thy name as great as that of Brutus — 
Be Father and Preserver of the people ! 

Phil. By lawful right, the lordship is our own. 

Gast. The people love you, call you lord already ! 

Phil. Hark ye, my friend, can you gain me access 
To these caballing spirits in the city ? 

Gast. Most joyfully! Give me your hand, brave sir; 
You are the man on whom all hearts are set ! 

Phil. Let us begone ! 

Gast. No moment let us lose ! 

[they go off together. 



246 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

SCENE V. 

A large vaulted room, lighted by an iron lamp — 
Gaston, Arnold, Henry, Conrad, and three soldiers, 
sitting round a table, at the head of which is a 
vacant seat. 

Gast. 'T is good to see you here ! What are your 
tidings ? 

Con. Seven hundred men with me, true as the ore 
We dig from out the mines, have ta'en the oath ; 
Men brawny as myself — look at my arms ! 
We are not babes in muscle ; we can deal 
Blows that require no second ! 

Gast. Are ye armed ? 

Con. The half of us are armed ! We've stinted us 
Of food — have lived like dogs, we and our children, 
To hoard the means that might obtain, us arms ! 

Rol. Devoted men ! Antiquity can boast 
No truer hearts than yours ! 

Am* I met, last night, 

In the deep glen of Sarni, fifteen men, 
Sent out from fifteen districts in the hills, 
To swear to us allegiance. Ye may count 
Upon five hundred men, both young and old, 
Serfs of the soil, who have been trampled on 
Till, like the wounded adder, they turn round 



PHILIP OP MAINE. 247 

And bite the foot that galls them ! There are none 
Truer than these stout children of the soil ! 
They '11 do the cause good service ; and for arms, 
Have sworn to turn the sickle and the scythe 
To weapons, that shall mow a harvest down, 
Redder and richer than the fields afford ! 

Gast. 'T is well ! who now is spokesman for the 
army? 

Soldier. All, all are disaffected, as ye know, 
And murmur for their long arrears of pay ! 
And all, excepting four old companies, 
Whom Kronberg by his partial favour won, 
And over whom command Segbert and Nicholas, 
Each several man is yours ; and ye may count 
Upon ten thousand good and trusty swords, 
Wielded by hands omnipotent as death. 

Rol. >r Y is the ten thousand of the Grecian story ! 
The invincible ten thousand ! 

Gast. Brave, bold hearts ! 

Soldiers of freedom, welcome to the cause ! 
And now I scarce need say, that in the city 
Five thousand more are leagued unto our band, 
Each with his arms, which as his household gods 
Make his hearth Freedom's altar ! 

All is ready, 
Saving the most important part of all, 



248 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

The appointment, time and place, and naming wisely 
A general leader of the several bands. 

The door suddenly opens, and hans clef, an artificer, 
rushes in. 

Hans. If you have tears within your eyes, weep 
them ; 
If you have human hearts, let them drop blood — 
Oh sirs, I 've seen the saddest, saddest sight ! 

Several voices. What hast thou seen ? Say quickly 
what thou mean'st ! 

Hans. They tore him from his house ; his wife 
e'en now 
Upon her bed of death — his little children 
Filling the air with their most piteous voices ! 

Gast. Whom speak ye of? 

Hans. He had been here, even now, 

But that he staid to watch his dying wife ! 
They heard that he had arms — they searched her 

bed— 
They cast her on the floor, a dying woman ; 
And in the wretched straw whereon she lay 
They found his arms ! Oh sirs, they found his arms ! 

Gast. Pr'ythee whose arms ? 

Hans. I told ye, my poor brother's ! — 

I'll tell ye more — they racked him on the wheel, 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 249 

And he a feeble man, a child in frame — 

He 's dead ! I saw him die, with mine own eyes ! 

All. Betrayed he aught ? 

Hans. - How dare ye ask me that ! 

Oh I could tear out every tongue that asks 
If Wilhelm were a traitor ! 

Henry. Poor, brave man ! 

Hans. Why sit ye here, looking like senseless 
stones ? 
Oh ! had ye seen that dying woman's face ; 
Had ye but heard those little children's wail ; 
Had ye but seen that steadfast patriot die — 
Ye would have sworn, by heaven, and earth, and hell, 
To be their good avengers — 

All. We do swear ! 

Gast. Ye swear — by heaven, and earth, and hell, 
ye swear 
To bring down tenfold vengeance for the blood 
Of this brave man ; and for his children's tears ; 
And for the groan of his poor dying wife — 
Ye swear? 

All. We do ! 

Gast. So help ye gods and men, 

As ye do keep your oath ! 

All. Amen, amen ! 

Hans. You have not bound yourself! 

Gast. I will do more 



250 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Than utter empty words ! will give you him 
Who shall accomplish for you your revenge ! 

[he goes out, and returns leading in 
Philip of Maine. 
Know ye this man, my friends ? 

All, We know him well, 

We love him well ! 'T is the good heir of Maine ! 
Gast. Ye know that they of right possess the land. 
Rol. The little children know 't ! — thus says the 
legend, 

" Gold and gain, sun and rain, 
Came with Maine ; and will again !" 

Gast. Ye know how they have suffered, like your- 
selves — 
Their deadliest foe is the cold tyrant Kronberg ! 
Henry. Ay, they have suffered sore — and this 

good lord — 
Con. He saved my aged father from the gallows ! 
Henry. 'T was he, that in my quarrel drew his 
sword — 
When I defied that infamous collector 
To cross my threshold — 't is a well-known story ! 
Am. 'T was he that fed, and clothed, and kept in 

shelter — 
Phil. Peace ! peace ! I came not here to crave 
your thanks. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 251 

This was but common service — I '11 do more, 
I will make one with you in your great cause ! 

Henry. God bless you ! you were ever the poor 
man's friend ! 

All. Success will then be sure ! God save you sir. 

Phil. Dear friends and honest, I am one with you. 
Are ye poor ? so am I ! Are ye despised, 
And trampled on ? so have I been my life long ! 
Do you fare hard ? so have I fared from boyhood ! 
Are your hands hardened with your daily toil ? 
Look ye at mine ! are these a noble's hands, 
Fair as a woman's, decked with costly jewels, 
Each one of which would feed and clothe your house- 
holds ? 
No — I must till the earth, plough, work in mines, 
Do any servile labour to support me 
And my good aged father, and receive 
With humble thanks the pittance of my toil ; 
So are we fallen, through the proud oppressor 
That fattens on our blood ! Shall it be thus — 
Thus shall we toil, and groan ? 

No, no ! my friends. 
Thanks to brave men like you, we will be free ! 
We will assert our human dignity, — 
Our birth-right as free men ! Thank you, my friends? 
That you have thus decreed ; for in my lone, 
And solitary home I made my vow — 



252 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

The downfall of the tyrant ! yet to it 
There was no witness, save the heavens above. 
Thinking upon your wrongs, I wept alone ; 
Alone I made my prayer, when gracious heaven, 
Compassionating its oppressed children, 
Brought, as by chance, this brave man in my way, 
Even when the cursed tyrant had oppressed me 
Beyond my soul's endurance. — Why, do ye ask ? 
Because I was like you — like you, brave men, 
Because I was a poor man ! Noble hearts, 
Will ye have me a brother ? 

All. We will, we will ! 

Gast. And my beloved sons, I, who have been 
To this good cause a father, and have chosen 
This young man for my son, name him your leader, 
Speak, do ye like the choice ? 

All. We do, we do ! 

Henry. Not for our oath's sake to abide thy 
choice 
Shall he be chose ! 'Tis we elect him leader ! 

All. We do, we do ! 'T is we elect him leader ! 

Gast. My son, these men are brave, true men 
and brave, 
Be worthy of their choice ! Ye righteous hearts — 
Ye poor men who are crushed — ye noble spirits, 
Hungering and thirsting after truth and justice, 
Look on this man ! He will be as a god, — 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 253 

Maintain your upright cause and crush the tyrant. 
Join hands, and take an oath of fealty to him ! 

Phil, Brethren, ye shall not take an oath to me 
Blindly, and without knowing what ye swear for ! 
It is for the down-hurling of the tyrant ; 
For the upholding right — to give the poor 
The labour of his hands. — It is to open, 
And to dispense from coffers ye have filled; 
To feed the hungry and to clothe the naked — ■ 
To make just law the guardian of the people ; 
And give the people their just rights as men ! 
It is for this, that I will be your leader — 
Are ye content ? 

All. A thousand times content ! 

[they join hands. 

Gast. Ye swear, as the deputed agents of the cause, 
To serve both night and day this leal, good man, 
Philip of Maine, whom ye have chosen leader ! 

All. So heaven support us as we keep the oath ! 



ACT II. — SCENE I. 

Several days afterwards — a small apartment in the 
Castle of Maine ; the Lord of Maine, with the 
Bible before him. 

And all these things He suffered for our sakes — 
The man without a sin, for sinners' sakes ! 



254 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Reviled on, and he answered not again ; 

Smitten, and he smote not, though had he willed it, 

Myriads of angels would have ta'en his part ! 

A man of sorrows, and with grief acquainted, 

Yet patient as the lamb before its shearers ; — 

And this the Son of God ! higher than all power, 

Glory, or domination of the earth ! 

More royal than a king — than saints more holy, 

Though born among the lowly of the world — 

The son of a poor carpenter ; the friend 

Of humble fishermen, and simple women! — 

What matters it where our poor lives wear out ; 

Whether in palaces enrobed in purple, 

Or lying down in huts on wretched straw, 

With the ashamed outcasts of the earth ? 

What matters it in the great day of count ? 

Saving that in the balance of the oppressed, 

Then will be made a reckoning for his wrongs. 

Enough, I will not murmur — I will leave 

My righteous cause in the great Judge's hands ! 

Enter hildebrand. 

Bringest thou any tidings of my son ? 

Hild. My lord, as I was standing near the ford, 
One mufrled in his cloak passed by me twice, 
Looking into my face as if to question 
My countenance: " Good friend," said I, 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 255 

" What dost thou need of me ? ! ' " Art Hildebrand ?" 
He asked. " And if I were, what then ?" said I. 
" I 've tidings for thy master," he rejoined, 
And forthwith drew this writing from his breast, 
And bade me give it you. 

Lord of M. Thanks, my good servant. 

[Hildebrand goes out. 

Lord of M. [reads] "Have not a fear for me, 
I shall be heard of 
Anon, in otherwise than heretofore !" 
Thank God, he 's free ! It is not as I feared, 
That he had fallen into cruel hands— 
My son is safe ! Now welcome evil fortune, 
Since it will crush me singly ! 

Enter hildebrand, with an old sword drawn. 

Hild. Oh my master, 

A dozen horsemen now are at the gate ; 
They bear the cognizance of Kronberg's house. 

Lord of M. Admit them ; I am ready ! 

Hild. No, my master, 

They shall not take you thus ! The gates are barred. 
And they shall beat them down to gain admittance ; 
And they shall pass my body to win yours ! 

[he fastens the door and windows, and 
barricades them with furniture. 

Lord of M. These are but poor defences ! 



250 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Hild. I will prove them ! 

Whate'er is yours shall do good service for you ! 

Lord of M. But spare thyself, good Hildebrand ! 

Hild. My lord, 

Have I been in your service seventy years ; 
Eaten of your bread, and drunken of your cup ; 
Been cherished on your hearth ; been called your 

friend, 
But to desert you at the neediest time ? 

[a loud battering is heard at the gates. 

Lord of M. Nay then, I '11 do my best. 

[he arms himself. 

Hild. Oh ! would my lord, 

I had a young man's vigour in my arm ; 
Would I were such as when by S ami's stream 
I stood, upon the eve of Childermas, 
And saved a drowning man ! 

Lord of M. The lord of Kronberg ! 

Ah, Hildebrand ! he has forgot that service. 

Hild. My lord, he soon forgot it ! Scarce a month 
After that night, I crossed him in the chase, 
And, 'cause I could not answer to his question 
Of " which way went the boar?" his savage hound 
Was set to tear my flesh ! In vain I cried, 
" I am poor Hildebrand, who saved your life,!" 
He passed me with a curse ! Oh for the strength 
I wasted on the eve of Childermas ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 257 

Lord of M. The poor man hath his evil in this life, 
His reckoning in the next ! 

[the gates give way with a loud crash. 
Hild. Curse that old wood ! 

Now, my dear master, back, this is my place ! 

[he stations himself at the door ; loud voices 
and heavy footsteps are heard without, 
which then pass off in the distance. 
Hild. They 've lost the scent ! Oh, my most 
excellent master, 
If man's good deeds have any worth with heaven, 
Then should these sacred walls be kept from ruin — 
Would that our Lutheran faith, like theirs of Rome, 
Gave us kind saints to take our house's quarrel ! 
Lord of M. Peace, peace, good friend, I hear 

approaching voices. 
1st Voice, [outside'] Here hides the ancient fox ; 

come, now unearth him ! 
2nd Voice. This is the only habitable corner ! 
1st Voice. Give 's here the straw and matches, by 
my troth 
We '11 serve them as the hornet, burn them out ! 
Hild. The dogs ! they '11 burn us out ! 
Lord of M. Hist, Hildebrand ! 

Hild. Let 's issue forth, my lord, and do our best ! 
Lord of M. Let us go forth ; ours is a righteous 
cause ! 



258 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

But first, my aged servant, take a blessing 

From thine old master. 

Hild. [kneeling"] My gracious lord, 

May every power in heaven defend you through it ! 
[the flames burst into the chamber, Hilde- 
brand and the Lord of Maine rush out 
with drawn swords ; the men close 
upon them, and bear off the Lord of 
Maine, leaving Hildebrand wounded 
among the burning ruins. 



SCENE II. 

Night — a rocky glen, at the entrance of a lonesome 
mining village — a crowd of men, women and children 
collected together — Philip of Maine among them, 
unnoticed — Mother Schivartz stands forward — 
meteors and northern lights are seen crossing the shy, 

Man, These signs are plain enough ! 

Mother S, I saw, myself, 

Two armies from the north and south o' the sky 
Come up like hissing dragons ; and the heavens 
The while were red as blood ! 

Man, And bloody banners, 

And fiery swords and spears, like flickering lightning, 
Are thicker set than stars ! 

Old Man, Wherefore these signs ? 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 259 

I '11 tell ye — to arouse ye to repentance ! 
Banners, and swords, and shields, to teach that ye 
Are soldiers of a holy militant church ; 
Rivers of blood, to shew the blood of Christ ; 
Groanings and awful sighings, to recall 
The death on the cross ; and moans and hissings 
wild — 

Mother S. Peace, driveller, hold your peace ! 

2nd Man. No, no ; these signs, 

These awful, fiery signs, have other meanings — 
Tokens of wrath, to shew the end o' the world 
Is now at hand ! 

Philip of M. I see these diverse sights 
Of comets and wild meteors in the air ; 
And streaming fires, which from the northern pole 
Cast o'er the sky this wild horrific glare ; 
But what of these, my friends ? 

These things are tokens, 
Sent to the great and powerful of the earth 
To shake their souls ! High heaven is wroth with 
them ! 

Mother S. Thou art a wise man ! I do read these 
things 
As thou. But hark ! here comes the Innocent — 
The poor dumb innocent that now doth speak— 
Such wonders are abroad ! 

s2 



260 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

1st Man. He has work to do ! 

He is sent forth in these bad, awful times 
For some great meaning ! 

Mother S. Nothing has been done, 

Fearful or good, which he has not foretold — 
There is a god or else a devil in him ! 

2nd Man. Hist, hist ! he comes, and soon he will 
begin ! 
'T is thus he rocks his body to and fro, 
When the fit 's on him ! 

[the crowd gives way, and the Innocent 
enters, tossing his arms wildly, and 
speaking. 
Look, they 're coming from the clouds ! 
Thousands, thousands ; crowds on crowds ! 
Banners streaming ; bright swords flashing — 
Onward, onward dashing, crashing ! 
Lo, they meet ! The weak are strong ! 
Right is mightier now than wrong — 
Drive the bloody ploughshare deep ; 
Strike the sickle in and reap ! 
Weapons not of earth they wield — 
'T is a crimson harvest-field ! 
Warrior, to the fight away ! 
This is the appointed day ! 
Cowards, do ye quake with fear ? 
Up, the man of might is here ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 261 

Where is he ? the man of might ? 
Give him — give him to my sight ! 
I have seen him in my sleep — 
Heard him in the silence deep — 
Now I know by signs of fear 
That the man of might is here ! 
Hence ! ye hide him from my view — 

[he parts the crowd, and looks round him. 
Where art thou, O warrior true ? 
Ha ! I see thee ! thou art he ! 
Get thee hence to victory. 

[he falls back insensible, at Philip's feet. 

Many voices. What wonder 's this ? 

Mother S. Thou art the man he aimed at. 

Others. Say, who art thou ? 

Philip. Philip of Maine, I am. 

All. Philip of Maine ! our leader, Philip of Maine ! 

Mother S. Whom heaven has sanctioned by this 
miracle ! 

All. It has, it has ! 

Mother S. Hurrah for Philip of Maine ! 

All. Hurrah for Philip of Maine ! 

Enter jan Schwartz, and many forgemen, in great 
haste. 

Jan S. How ! stand ye here, and do not see the 
burning ? 



262 PHILir OF MAINE. 

Many voices. Where, where ? 

Jan S. In the east — behold ye not the light 

Crimson as blood? 'Tis the old house of Maine 
That is a-burning ! 

Philip. What, the Castle of Maine ! 

Jan S. Ay, and the ancient lord is carried off 
To Kronberg's dungeons ; and a price is set 
On his son's head — they say that Kronberg fears 

him! 
Lord, what a burning 't is ! the old dry timber 
Blazes like touchwood ! 

Philip. Carried to the dungeons ! 

Jan S. And the grand cedar floors smell like 
frankincense — 
I '11 warrant them they cost a world o' money ! 

Philip. This shall but kindle fiercer, bloodier 
vengeance ! 

Jan S. And poor old Hildebrand has been dug out ! 
He fought for his master, and was sorely wounded ; 
The burning walls fell on him — he was dead — 
Mangled, and black with blood and masking smoke. 

Philip. There shall be a reckoning for that old 
man's life ! 

Enter conrad, and other miners. 

See you that bloody beacon in the east ? 

Conrad. I do ! It is a beacon that will rouse 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 263 

Thousands of sleeping hearts, which, but for that 
Would have slept on ! The forest is aroused ; 
The cry is " Vengeance, and the Lord of Maine !" 
Mother S. And there has blood been shed — I 
know there has ! 
I can smell blood, even as the raven can ! 

Conrad* In the black glen we have left seven 
bodies — 
Bloodhounds were they, upon our leader's scent ; 
Making sure count of Kronberg's thousand pieces ! 
Philip, Thanks for this trusty service, gallant 

friends ! 
Many voices. We owe you more ! 
Mother S. [aside'] I love the smell of blood ! 

Philip. Now, friends, unto your homes ! An hour 
will come 
When I shall need your bravest energies — 
Of that you shall have warning ; and till then, 
Farewell ! 

Many voices. Nay, we will with you, even now ; 
Will be your guard ! 

Others. And we will to the burning. 

[they all disperse. 



264 rillLIP OF MAINE. 



SCENE III. 



Some evenings afterwards — three men sitting round 
a fire in a cave, opening upon broken ground. 

1st Man. It is a general out-break. No faint 
impulse, 
Threatening one moment, and next moment quelled ; 
Where'er ye go, people are under arms. 

2d Man. As I this morn, stood on the wooded 
heights, 
O'erlooking the wild rocky pass of Forges, 
Three thousand peasants, armed in rustic fashion, 
Shouldering their scythes, their reaping hooks, and 

forks, 
Passed onward in firm file, like veteran soldiers ! 
That will be done anon, will find no healing, 
Save in the tyrant's blood. 

1st Man. The forest mines 

Have sent their thousands forth ; in dens and caves 
They wait the appointed signal. 

3d Man. Kronberg sleeps, 

The while Destruction gathers up itself, 
To crush him with its concentrated force. 
But heaven confounds whom it foredooms to ruin ! — 
Philip and Gaston 'neath the castle gates, 
Within the very hearing of the soldiers 



PHILIP OF MAINE, 265 

That man the walls, call on them to arise, 
To crush the heedless tyrant, and be free ! 

2d Man. Gaston I do not like. These strange 
adventurers 
Start up in troublous times, as crawling things 
Spring forth from falling ruins into day. 
Philip is ours — we know him root and branch ; 
And when his house had power, the times were better ; 
An it please heaven to give them head again, 
I '11 help him heart and hand. 

1st Man. He has all hearts,— 

And hands will go with hearts — have gone already ! 
It was but three morns since I saw him stand 
In the full market-place, and raise his voice, 
Like the tremendous angel that foretold 
The end of time ! 

2d Man. His voice is like a trumpet ! 

Never heard I so rich, so full a voice — 
I 've seen men moved when but its tones were heard. 

1st Man. Thus was it then ! — They that were cold 
at first, 
Or fixedly determined 'gainst his purpose, 
Kindled to hear his glowing exhortation. 
Thousands on thousands gathered round about, 
Wedged close, like a thick swarm of summer bees ; 
Till tens of thousands seemed to occupy 
A space as many hundreds might have filled ; 



266 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

And then, even like unto a living body 
Swayed by the great pulsations of one heart, 
They moved together in their strong excitements 
Of joy or rage, as move the heavy waves 
Of a deep, rolling sea ! 

2d Man. He will be great ! — 

And were he sundered from that foreign patriot, 
As all good men desire, might bless- the state 
By his ascendance o'er the tyrant's fall. 

1st Man. Trust me, a mighty engine is at work, 
To undermine rock-rooted tyranny, — 
And I bless God that we shall be free-men, 
As did each tongue of those assembled thousands, 
Until the morning-heavens gave back the shout — 
And yet each man returned unto his home 
Without impediment ! 

2d Man. They might not now, 

For now he is awake ; and terrible 
Has his awakening been ! The bloody rack 
Doth every hour its work ; and armed bands 
Scour through the silenced streets, or trample down 
Whoever dare oppose them — men or women, 
Or little helpless children — and make search 
In the house of each suspected citizen. 

1st Man. Poor impotence of power! — where one 
is with him, 
A thousand arc against him ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 267 

A wild crowd, of people come up. 

People. God save Philip ! 

Hurrah for the Deliverer ! Who 's for Philip ? 

1st Man. What's this about ? 

Man of the crowd. Philip has set us free ! 

The damned collector stripped us, dead and living : 
The body on the bier — the new-made bride — 
The bread from out our little children's hands — 
We were the wretchedest people 'neath the sun ! 

Another Man. Philip stepped up, and seizing the 
collector, 
Dealt him a wound in 's body that cut short 
His pillaging ! 

Another Man. And ripping up his bags, 
Poured out the gold, and chucked it here and there 
Among our children. " Take it all," said he ; 
And gold flew wide, like yellow leaves in autumn. 
We '11 have no more collectors ! God save Philip ! 
Who is for him ? We '11 have no lord but Philip ! 

Enter forgemen, hurriedly. 

Forgeman. Have ye not heard the news o' th J 

victory ? 
2d Man. What victory ? 
Forgeman. Philip has got the day ! 



268 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

A battle has been fought i' th' fields of Forges ; 
And Philip marches to encamp at Sarni, 
At the head of twenty thousand ! 

People. God save Philip ! 

Forgeman. Who 's for the Conqueror let him follow 
me ! 

[he runs forward. 
People. We '11 follow — that we will ! 
3d Man. Let 's take the oath 

To this brave leader in the cause of freedom ; — 
Let 's to the camp at Sarni ! 

[they all follow. 



SCENE IV. 

A street in the city. 

Enter a man, crying papers. 

Man. Here is a full and true account of the won- 
derful and awful prophecy delivered by one who rose 
from the dead ; in which is plainly foretold the strange 
and solemn events which are coming upon the earth ; 
to which is added, the downfal of pride, and a clear 
explanation of the terrible and portentous signs and 
tokens in the sky, written by the learned Dr. Astreus : 
together with an account of sundry wonders and 
mysterious visitations which were witnessed in many 
places of this state. All which are explained with 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 269 

reference to things which are about coming to pass. 
" He that runneth may read." 

Many voices. Give us one ! Here 's money, give 
us one ! 

[the man distributes his papers, and then 
goes forward. 

Another man rushes in. 

Off with ye, every one of you ! off, off, 

A troop is coming down ! 

[they all disappear. 

Soldiers ride through the street with swords drawn. 

After a short time another crowd enters, in the midst 

of which is the innocent, mother schwartz 

and hans clef stand forward. 

Hans Clef. By Jove, there 'd be a hubbub, were 
he heard 
In yonder castle ! 

Mother S. Ay, he shall be heard, — 

By every power of vengeance shall be heard ! 
Now hist again ! 

Innocent. Man of pride, the hour is near, 
Thou shalt bow thyself in fear ; 
Thou shalt gnash thy teeth in rage ; 
Thou shalt curse thy drooping age — - 
Thou shalt fall, and thou shalt die ! 

Mother S. We know of whom he speaks ! 



270 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Hans Clef. He is convulsed ! — 

Ah no, he speaks again ! 

Innocent. Cometh night upon the noon ? 
Mighty, art thou fallen so soon ? 
Let me close mine eyes, I see 
Nought but coming misery ! 
Hotly rolls the crimson flood ! 
See ye not these streets run blood ? — 
Death is stalking up and down 
Through this wailing, midnight town. 
Hark ! what yells are in the air — 
See ye not the red fire's glare ? 
Midnight flames are bursting there — 
What comes next ? despair ! despair ! 
Woe ! woe ! woe ! — The day is done ; 
Mighty, art thou fallen so soon ! 

[he sinks down insensible. 

1st Man. Most sorrowful ! most strange ! 

Mother S. 'T is but a madman ! 

2d Man. Dark sayings are these all ! 

Innocent, [starting up.~\ They are here ! I feel 
their hands ! 
Off! I brook not gyves nor bands ! 
Down the silent, echoing street, 
Hark ! I hear their coming feet ! 

[he gives a spring upward, and is seized 
by soldiers. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 271 

Mother S. Unhand him, cut-throats ! 

\_all the people struggle to rescue him ; he 
is wounded and borne off. 
Hans Clef. This is his blood! By heaven it is 
his blood ! 

[he dips a handkerchief in it, which he 
fastens to his staff, and waves over his 
head. 
Mother S. Rally around the standard ! To the 
castle ! 
Follow, and let us rescue him ! 

[they all hurry off. 



ACT III.— SCENE I. 

A dungeon in the Castle of Kronberg — the Lord of 
Maine sitting on straw. 

Enter ida kronberg, with fine bread, a flask of wine 
and a lamp. 

Lord of M. What messenger of mercy may'st thou 
be, 
That daily visitest this dreary cell, 
And ministerest kind comfort to my need ? 

Ida. [placing the viands before him] Eat, drink, my 
lord, for you will need refreshment ! 



272 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Lord of M. I would believe thou wert some blessed 
saint, 
Did I not see thy weak and trembling frame, 
And hear thy voice so full of human sorrow ! 

Ida. Eat, drink, old man, waste not the time in 
words ! — 
Meantime I will compose my mind to speak 
That which requireth more than human strength. 
My lord, you have a son ! 

Lord of M. Heaven grant I have! yet not in 
bonds like me — ■ 
My years are well nigh full — his years are few, 
Say not he is in bonds ! 

Ida. Your son is free — 

Three leagues from this he lieth with his army ! 

Lord of M. His army — thou mistak'st ! Thou 
canst not mean 
Philip of Maine ! 

Ida. The very same, I mean ! 

And now he lieth on the plain of Sarni 
With a confederate host, each hour increasing, 
Till tens of thousands are its smallest number. — 
Two-thirds the army, and all mutinous spirits ; 
Miners and artizans, herdmen and serfs, 
Nay, the whole land, if rumour speaketh truly, 
Banded together for our house's ruin ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 273 

Lord of M. Ha ! is it so ? Scarce forty days have 
passed 
Since he was friendless and of no account ! 
But, gracious lady, on ; thy words are wondrous. 

Ida. Like the fierce torrent of a mountain river, 
Swoln by the night- thaw of a winter's snow, 
So has this mutinous faction suddenly 
Sprung into being, so it threatens death ! — 
Few are the burghers who have not thrown off 
Their old allegiance — all declare for Philip ! 
The castle is blockaded. In our walls 
The few leal men who have maintained their oath 
Entered last night. To-morrow, it is rumoured, 
The enemy will make their great attack. 
Oh ! 't is a bloody oath that they have sworn — - 
A fearful, bloody oath ! 

Lord of M. They have great cause ! 

Ida. I am a woman, and dare not attempt 
To judge these weighty matters. 

Lord of M. But proceed ! 

Ida. Here all is preparation for defence. 
The walls are manned with veterans ; arms are fur- 
nished ; 
Lord Kronberg swears to part with life, ere right. 
J T will be a bloody contest ! My poor heart 
Droops with prophetic feeling of great woe ! 

Lord of M. What would'st thou have of me ? 

T 



274 PHILIP OF MAINE, 

Ida. Ah, I forgot — - 

How shall I tell thee that ? — I am a traitor ! 

Lord of M. A traitor ! nay ! 

Ida. I am Lord Kronberg's daughter ! 

Lord of M. Art thou Lord Kronberg's daughter? 

Ida. Thou must hence — 

Must to thy son, and counsel him to temper 
Vengeance with mercy. When he knows thee safe, 
Perchance he may withdraw. And more than this, 
Flee for thy life ! A gibbet is erected, 
Thou '11 see it in the moonlight, on the walls ; 
There 't was my father's order to convey thee, 
A terror to the foe, when day should break ; — 
And woman as I am, weak, timid woman, 
I dare oppose my judgment unto his ; 
He shall not stain his name — a noble name, 
By basely taking life from such as thou — 
An old and unoffending nobleman ! 
Hence to thy son ! and, friend, remember this, 
Thou hast had mercy, and be thou for us 
An angel of sweet mercy ! 

Lord of M. Gracious lady, 

With joy, I '11 do thy bidding with my son ! 

Ida. Now follow ! 

Lord of M. [aside] No marvel 't is he loved her ! 
[she unbars the door y and they go out softly 
together. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 275 

SCENE II. 

Ida's chamber — Ida arranging flowers. 

It was a gentle notion in old times, 

When books were few, and ladies could not read, 

To give to flowers sweet names — sweet names that 

told 
As much as a whole book of poetry. 
The heart' s-ease ; — I could look for half a day 
Upon this flower, and shape in fancy out 
Full twenty different tales of love and sorrow 
That gave this gentle name ! Would I could find in 't 
That sovereign' st balm of all ! 

Enter bertha, with a banner in her hand. 

Bertha. My noble cousin, 

Mounts not thy blood to see this gallant standard ! 
Many a brave field has seen this crimson banner — 
A field of noble foes — then waved it well ! 
Alas ! that it must spread its silken breadth 
To yon base herd, 'gainst whom the raven's wing, 
Flapping above the blasted gibbet-tree, 
Had been a fitter banner ! 

Ida. They are men— 

And my heart tells me, sorely injured men- 
Power is oppression ! 

t 2 



276 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Bertha, Creatures of the earth, 

Made to be trodden on ! Poor beasts of burden, 
Formed for submission ; and they now rise up 
And ask their rights as men — faugh ! look at them, 
They are but brutes ! Down with them to the dust, 
And make them eat of it ! 

Ida. Nay, gentle cousin, 

Their cause was just, heaven grant they shame it not ! 
Their sole demand was bread, bread for their children — 
"Was 't more than right ? — I tell thee, dearest Bertha, 
Power is a dangerous engine in man's hand. 
My noble father used it as a scourge, 
So will these men — yet while I shrink with dread, 
I own their cause was just ! 

Bertha. Ida, for shame ! 

Thou would'st be lady-leader of this rabble — 
Thou would' st be wife to Philip ! — Shame on thee! 
Thus should not speak Lord Kronberg's noble 

daughter — 
It is a monstrous sin to love that man ! 

Ida. Thou dost misjudge me — I regard their cause 
Separate from him. 

Bertha. I'd tear my wilful heart 

From out my breast, if it were such a traitor ! 

Ida. I am Lord Kronberg's daughter ; " and our 
house 
Brooks not reproach. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 277 

Enter lord kronberg. 

Lord of K. What eager words are these ? 

Bertha. Uncle, behold this banner! Tis not 
heavy ! 
Grant me to hold it on its post to-morrow, — 
I will not flinch — by your good name, I will not ! 
Lord of K. Nay, nay, my pretty niece, thou shalt 
not risk 
Thy life before the weapons of those caitiffs ! — 
But now, my Ida, why art downcast thus ? 
Fear not, my child, to-morrow thou shalt see 
The Lord of Kronberg lord in his own land ! 

[a knock is heard at the door. 
Who knocks there? 

Enter seneschal. 

Sene. He 's 'scaped, my lord ! — 

He is not in the dungeon — he has 'scaped ! 

Lord of K. Escaped ! Then there are traitors in 
these walls ! 
Try on the rack the soldiers who were taken 
In act to fly unto the enemy ! 

Ida. My father, no ! — these men are innocent — 
*T was I who gave him freedom ! 

Lord of K. Peace, my daughter ! 

Thou 'rt raving ! Bertha, take her to her chamber. 



278 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Ida. I am not raving — I am calm as thou ! — 
Father, I gave that old man liberty — 
I would not let thy noble name be stained 
With innocent blood ! 

Lord of K. If thou didst dare unlock 

That dungeon door, my curse light on thee, traitor ! 
Ida. Nay, curse me not,— dear father, curse me 

not! 
Lord of K. Hence with her to the dungeon! 

she's a traitor! 
Sene. My good lord, no ! She is your child, my 

lord! 
Bertha, [clasping her arms about her] Off, off! 
you shall not lay your hands upon her. 

[she supports her into an inner room. 
Lord of K. Traitors of mine own blood ! Fetch 
out the prisoners, 
And hang them all —and that vile prating idiot ! 
But I '11 trust none of ye ! I '11 see it done ! 

[he goes out with the Seneschal. 



SCENE III. 

Seven days afterwards — the same apartment — Ida 
reclines on a couch. 

The name of Ida Kronberg will go down 
As of a rebel traitor — as one leagued 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 279 

Against her father in the desperate strife 
Wherein, perchance, his life may be the forfeit. 
Oh Thou, who in thy righteous hand dost hold 
The lives of all thy creatures, guard, I pray, 
My father through the conflict ! Be his shield, 
And his sufficient help ! If life thou needest, 
Take my poor life, a sacrifice for his — 
I would resign my breath into thy hands — 
My cause unto thy judgment — which is just ! 

Enter bertha, and count fabian. 

Bertha. Ha ! traitor, did he say ? Believe me, 
Count, 
The tumult of the hour hath mazed his brain — 
Daughter he meant, his most beloved daughter ! 
Ida, Count Fabian brings us heavy news — 
The outer walls are taken — and the attack 
Hath now commenced upon the inner fortress ; 
But my most noble uncle, full of kindness, 
Hath sent this brave young Count to be our guard ! 

Ida. He could not grant a trustier, braver friend ! 
Count, in the good greenwood thou 'st been our 

guard — 
Heaven knows if we shall take those sports again ! 

Fab. I murmured when I heard my good lord's 
orders, 



280 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

For he most strangely worded his command,— 
Methought he spoke of gaoler — not defender ! 

Bertha. I told you, Count, my uncle's brain is 
mazed. 
He does not mean that she and I are traitors. 

Ida. \_aside~] Oh, most unkind, to still believe me 
traitor — 
To shut his heart in such a time as this ! — 
But 't is not meet Count Fabian see me weep — 
Let me retire into the inner chamber ! 

Bertha. I will go with thee. 

\ihey go into the inner room. 

Fab. She 's a noble lady ! 
Who would not draw his sword for such a one ? 
And 't is for her, they say, the war is waged— 
A single-handed man, I 'd face, myself, 
A hundred foes were she the victor's guerdon! 
Now let me think — suppose he win the day, 
Suppose he force the castle, and take prisoner 
Her noble sire — which is impossible ! 
I 'd sooner die than she should be his prisoner ; — 
But for the supposition's sake — I 'd fly 
To every court in Europe, and demand 
Help for the noblest, fairest, best of ladies ; 
And Suabia's duke would be our earliest helper — 
All know he has an eye upon this lordship ; 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 281 

And is beside, a gallant, generous soldier ! 

\_a loud clamour of assault and defence is 
heard. 
But how now ! What is this ? Oh, but to stand 
Upon the bulwarks ! Curse these four strait walls ! 

[he mounts to the window. 
Ah ! what a stirring sight ! Yonder is Philip, 
Known by the bloody hand upon the banner ; 
His is a soldier's bearing — would to heaven 
It was a gallant cause for which he strove ! 

Re-enter bertha. 

Bertha. Count Fabian, let me hear thee read the 
signs 
Of this unhappy morn ! 

Fab. I scarce can see 

Aught now ; the force is drawn beneath the walls — 
Yet from the town a fresh attack is made. 

Bertha. 'T is as an earthquake's tumult ! 

Fab. An assault 

Made from the tower of the Cathedral church. 

Bertha. Are the good saints asleep, that this should 
be? 

Fab. Again it shakes the castle as 't would fall ! 
Oh that I were without, to take my part 
In this day's struggle ! 

[he looks out again. 



282 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

All is quiet here — 
The plain of Sarni and the distant camp, 
Without a living form, are all I see ; 
The little stream is running on in sunshine ; 
The breeze is stirring 'mong the chestnut trees 
That grow adown the slope ! How strange the 

contrast 
Between the calm and beautiful repose 
Of nature and the unholy strife of man ! 

[the sounds of assault become yet louder, 
with shouts of triumph intermixed. 
Bertha. Heavens ! what terrific power have human 
voices 
In their ferocious triumph thus sent forth ! 

Fab. 'T is vain to look. The strife is close within 
The very walls, and this small tower gives nought 
Save quiet fields, and the green, waving tree-tops ! 
Bertha. Yet, yet again ! these sounds might wake 

the dead ! 
Fab. To those cooped up, the strife is more appalling 
Than in the open air, amid the contest. 

Soldier, [without] Let 's forth, Sir Count, the 
assault comes nearer yet ! 
The inner walls are taken ! 

Fab. Curse the orders ! , 

Pardon me, lady, but my soul is chafed 
By this imprisonment ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 283 

Soldier. They need our help ! 

Let us go forth, Sir Count ! 

Fab. Brave soldiers, no ! 

You do defend the noble Ida Kronberg ; 

[a more terrible explosion shakes the whole 
building; a death-like silence ensues* 

Enter id a* 
My father ! Is he safe ? 

Enter count Nicholas. 

Count Nich. Hence ! hence with me ! 

The foe hath got an entrance ! hence with me 
Unto the stronghold in the topmost tower ! 
Ida. Say, is my father safe ? 
Count Nich. He is, thank God ! 

[to Fabian] Take thou thy men, and on the turret 

stair 
Join Segbert ; he hath orders for the rest. 

[they all go out. 



SCENE IV. 

A small room in the upper tower. 
Enter the lord of kronberg, counts Nicholas and 

SEGBERT. 

Segbert. My lord, the foe hath got entire pos- 
session ! 



284 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Nicholas. By that old passage opening to the 
river 
They gained an entrance ; there the mine was sprung 
By which the breach was made. 

Lord of K. Curse on ye all ! 

Why left you it unguarded ? 

Seg. Good, my lord, 

You did declare a force of twenty men 
Sufficient for the post, if 't were attempted ; 
And they were all cut down unto a man ! 

Lord of K. It was your post, and you have it 
deserted ; 
And but that 't is an hour we may not spare 
From weightier business, you should die for 't, traitor ! 

Seg. [throwing down his sword] For five and fifty 
years I y ve been your soldier, 
And never was dishonoured till this hour ! 

Nich. Nay, my good lord of Kronberg, 'tis 
unjust, 
5 T is most unjust, my lord ! Segbert is true ! 
This is no time, indeed my lord, it is not, 
Thus to affront % brave and loyal soldier ! 

Lord of K. Ye all of you are traitors ! 

Nich. My dear lord, 

Let not our latest hours be spent in strife ! 
Count Segbert, take thy sword ! Let not the rabble 
Know of our strife — Count Segbert, take thy sword ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 285 

Seg. [reluctantly taking it] I am dishonoured, I 
am called a traitor ! 
Shame on myself ! — I am a veteran soldier 
Seamed o'er with scars, and yet am called a traitor ! 

Nich. Thou art no traitor, Segbert ! 

My Lord Kronberg, 
What is your will we answer to the foe ? 

Lord of K. How many may we count ? 

Nich. Our bravest soldiers 

Lie dead within the breach — we are scant a hundred ! 

Lord of K. Then with this handful, I'll defend 
the tower — 
Will see them die of famine, ere I yield it ! 
Shame on ye, would ye counsel aught beside ? 

Nich. I know no better counsel for the hour. 

Lord of K. I shall return no answer to the rebel. 
Now each unto his post ; and leave no outlet 
This time unwatched — but I will forth myself, 
And keep you to your duties ! 

[they go out. 



286 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

SCENE V. 

The state-apartments of the Castle of Kronberg — a 
disorderly and drunken rabble, headed by Mother 
Schwartz, are despoiling them, and carrying off 
booty. 

Enter philip, with a small company of soldiers, who 
station themselves at the doors. 

Phil. Plunderers and spoilers, hence ! 

Mother S. Nay, we '11 not budge ! 

Many voices. We will not, we '11 have spoil as 

well as you ! 
Man. You might have lived and died with famished 
rats 
Had we not helped you ; and we 11 have our wages ! 
Another. We shall go short, unless we help our- 
selves ! 
Phil. Base spoilers, ye shall not deface these halls, 
Down with your booty ! 

[they make a general attempt to carry off 
spoil ; the soldiers drive them back. 
Phil. Plunderers, lay it down — - 

Ye shall not hence, save ye go empty-handed ! 

Many voices. We will not out then ! we will tarry 
here ! 
We will defend our own ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 287 

All. We will defend it! 

Man. Curse him ! he '11 say 't is his ! 
Phil. I swear 't is mine ! 

Ye aie a herd of robbers, seeking outrage ! 
Down with your spoil, or, by my soul these swords 
Shall be unsheathed on you ! 

Mother S. Ay, lord it Philip ! 

Trample upon us ! Dare to draw a sword, 
And thou shalt find thine equals, that thou shalt ! 

Phil. Ill strike thee down if thou defy me farther! 
Stand back — and hear me speak ! 

Mother S. We will not hear thee ! 

Thou 'dst be a tyrant — be another Kronberg ! 

[they make a fresh attempt to carry off 
their spoil ; the soldiers oppose them ; 
a violent contest ensues, and many are 
wounded. 
Mother S. [aside] Let us appear to yield. There 
is a force 
Outside will take our part ! We '11 have revenge ! 
Man. Give us free egress, Philip, and we'll 

yield ! 
Phil, [aside"] Curse on them, with their everlasting 
Philip ! 
Soldiers give place, and see that all go hence ; 
And yet go empty-handed ! 

[he withdraws into an inner room. 



288 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Many voices. Hang him ! we '11 have a reckoning 

with him yet ! 
Woman, [taking a body] My son, my son ! he 's 

dead! 
Soldiers. Out with ye ! Out ! 

[the people are forced out, uttering threats 
and curses. 

Re-enter philip. 

One enemy is crushed, or well nigh crushed, 

Cooped in a little tower, and scarce a hundred—^ 

Meantime another rises, like the head 

Of the gigantic Hydra— the fierce people, 

Greedy of plunder, fickle and rapacious ; 

'T is the strong arm must crush them as they rise ; 

Must hurl them down to their subservient place, 

And keep them there ; as rude and rough materials, 

Unsightly and unworthy, form the basement 

Of kingly edifices — now I see 

Wherefore the great must keep the low subjected. 

Enter gaston. 

Gast. Dost fold thine arms as thou might'st take 
thine ease ? 
Thou art not lord of this dominion yet ! 
Phil. Speak plain, what is thy meaning ? 
Gast. The rude concourse, 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 289 

Whom thou hast driven from the gates e'en now, 
Strengthened with a gigantic force, return, 
And claim access, mad with some fancied wrong. 
Thou art no longer " noble, gracious Philip ;" 
But "tyrant," "bloody and injurious tyrant!" 

Phil. I '11 cut them into mouthfuls for the dogs 1 

Gast. Thou madman ! These are they who gave 
thee power ! 

Phil* Wouldst give the fair reward of seven days' 
strife 
To them for plunder ? 

Gast. Give them for plunder those 

'Who have adhered to Kronberg — not a few ; 
And all rich merchants who as princes lived, — 
Fear not but they will fight like angry eagles 
For their nest-eggs • thus wilt thou arm thv foes 

Do ' *■ 

Against each other, and be rid of both — 

The merchants' names are here, their houses marked. 

Phil. A goodly list ! and only pity 't is 
To give from our own hands such noble spoil. 

Gast. There are a thousand ways to get it back ! 

Phil. An excellent friend ! Thou hast un tired 
resources ! 
Let 's have it done. 

Gast. Listen, yet one word more* 

The mine that gave to us an entrance here, 
Hath shook the dungeons — they are insecure ; 

u 



290 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

A plot is formed among the prisoners, 
Many of whom are soldiers, to break forth, 
Surprise thee in the night — retake the castle, 
And give thee up to Kronberg ! 

Phil. Ha ! is 't so ? 

Is danger then so nigh ? But hear me, friend — 
There is a gaoler stronger than stone walls — 
Canst thou not manage it ? 

Gast. Dost thou mean death ? 

Murder so many men ? 

Phil. Wilt swear 't is true ? 

Gast. Upon my life, 't is true ! 
Phil. Then I'll not dally ! 

See thou to it — make sure of them ere midnight ; 
But let it only be 'twixt thee and me ! 
Meantime I '11 forth, and pacify these wolves. 

[he goes out. 
Gast. There is an easy conscience ! On my troth 
Not even myself could do the thing more coolly ! 
This human nature is a curious problem — 
He who one day sheds tears with crying children, 
Bespeaks the next a wholesale butchery ; . 
And yet, the bloody wretch, he knows the shame on 't. 
" Let it be only betwixt thee and me ! " 
Nay, nay, I '11 give the credulous whisper forth ! 

[he goes out. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 291 



ACT IV.— SCENE I. 

Midnight — banqueting -room in the Castle of Kron- 
berg — table spread — soldiers and attendants pass in 
and out, bearing wine and viands. 

1st Sol. Full twenty different wines have all been 
broached — 
The rarest wines of France and Germany — 
It is a royal board ! 

2d Sol. The spits are turning ; 

There is a savoury smell throughout the house ! 

3d Sol. Think you they '11 scent the viands up 
aloft ? 

4th Sol. If they get that, it will be all they '11 get ; 
They 'd do us reverence for the bones I 'm thinking ! 

3d Sol. And then the prisoners in those darksome 
dungeons— 
I pity them, poor souls, for most are soldiers — 
Who '11 have the feeding of them ? 

2d Sol. Troth! they '11 go 

One night without their suppers ! 

Attendant. They will taste 

Nor morning meal, nor evening any more — 
They 're dead ere this ! 



292 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

1st Sol. What, every prisoner — 

Soldiers and all ? 

Attend. Ay, every one of them ! 

But what of that ? The dungeon only knows 
What wrongs are done within its dreary walls ! 

1st Sol. Ay, ay, these things may all be right and 
proper, 
But they do chill the blood within one's veins ; — 
I love an enemy in open fight, 
And, easy-conscienced, could cut down a hundred ; 
But 't is no part of noble soldiership 
To stab i' the dark ; and put the subtle poison 
In meats and drinks ! Who gave the order for 't ? 

Attend. Philip — our good lord Philip — who but 
he? 

3d Sol. If but a hair of any soldier's head 
Have come to harm, by Him, who is in heaven, 
I will forswear the service of this Philip 
As a blood-thirsty tyrant, worse than Kronberg ! 

Ath Sol. If it be so, I will return on th' morrow 
To my first soldier-oath ! 

2d Sol. And so will I ! 

Attend. Tush, tush ! you all are fools ! 

2d Attend, [running in] All, all give place, — 

Here come the lords o' th' night ; 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 293 

Enter Men, bearing dishes. 

Now to your boards ! 
This is the topmost table, and my lord 
Hath ordered every man his belly full. 
This is above the salt — all ye must lower, — - 
Ye have your trenchers elsewhere — but for viands 
Not one whit worse than these! 

[the soldiers go out, talking earnestly to- 
gether — the attendants busy themselves 
in arranging the table. 

Enter philip, gaston, and a great company. 

Phil. Be seated all — and let us try, my friends, 
The cheer of this good night ! 

Ho ! give us wine — 
Fill every golden goblet to the brim, 
And drink, my friends ! 

Gast. God save Duke Philip ! 

Enter officer hastily. 

I am much grieved to trouble the great joy 

Of such an hour — but mine's a pressing errand. 

Phil. Speak to the purpose, can'st not ? 

Officer. My good lord, 

The burghers clamour at the gates for help 



294 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Against those lawless thousands that despoil, 
By indiscriminate plunder, every house ! 

Phil. Damnation on them ! Bid the burghers 
fight 
For their own hearths and homes ! 

Officer. I will, my lord ! 

Gast. [taking up a cup] Drink to the universal 
sentiment — 
Long life, and long success unto Duke Philip ! 

Enter the old lord of maine. 

Lord of M. Sitt'st thou, my son, thus banqueting 
at ease 
When blood is pouring like an undammed river ; 
And lawless rapine through the midnight city 
Rages like hell let loose 1 For two long hours, 
Has burgher after burgher called on thee 
With piteous cries and groans ! 

Phil. Peace, peace, my lord, 

One is dispatched even now will see to it. 

Lord of M. It is thy cause, my son ! Up, arm 
thyself; 
All is one scene of tumult, blood, and frenzy — 
The burghers, for their wives and daughters, pray 
More than their wealth ! Thy fortune will be lost 
If thou hold back ! Shame on this drunken riot, 
When all that 's dear to manhood calls thee out ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 295 

Enter soldier. 

Soldier, My lord, the burghers bring their wives 
and daughters 
Here for protection. They demand your presence — 
The city is on fire in every quarter ! 

Phil, Confusion seize them ! I shall not go forth 
And do their bidding, as they choose to dictate ! 
Lord of M. Then I will buckle harness on, and 
forth !— 
What gentlemen will up, and come with me ? 

Many officers. We will to horse with you, and quell 

this tumult ! 
Gast, [_aside~] If that old man go forth, he ruins 
all! 
Stay, brave old sir, we will not tax your arm 
Against these scurvy ruffians ! I myself 
Will be lieutenant-general on this night — 
Sit every gentleman, I '11 do 't myself. 

Lord of M. This is more grace than I had looked 
for from thee ; 
Thou art not often ready for good deeds ! 

Phil, Sit every one ; 't is but a petty tumult, 
Which he will quell with half a score of soldiers ! 

[they seat themselves. 
Gast, [aside] Now this is right ! 1 11 out, and set 
the city 



296 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

hi such a bloody tumult as shall make 

This time be chronicled " the night of terror !" 

\he goes out. 



SCENE II. 

A small room of the upper tower — the Lord of 
Kronberg alone. 

Lord of K . When great misfortune threats a noble 
house, 
'T is a great sacrifice that must be made 
For its retrieve — and 't is the part of greatness 
Misfortune to defy by nobly yielding ! 
Should I deny nobility to Philip 
It were a lie — the blood that warms his veins 
Flows from a regal source. There are who say 
This land by right is his — I yield not that — 
But as my daughter's dower, I may confer 
Reversion of its rule on whoso weds her. 
Suppose it Philip ; I get added power, — 
Dominion o'er the factious multitude 
Estranged from me, but firm allies of his. — 
It may be that my daughter may object 
To this rough wooing — but a truce to that ; 
I can enforce obedience ! — and in sooth 
Philip would not displease a woman's eye. 
But here she comes — though little like a bride. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 297 

Enter id a. 

My daughter, banish these dejected looks ! 

Ida. Welcome misfortune, if it give me back 
Thy love, my dearest father ! 

Lord of K. Some harsh words 

I spoke to thee at parting, I remember — 
Forgive thy father, Ida ; he was wroth, 
More with the woe that pressed him, than with 
thee! 

Ida. Nay, ask not my forgiveness ! 

Lord of K. Thou, dear child, 

Sweet image of thy mother, the most true, 
The patientest, the fairest of all women — 
Thou art my only hope ! 

Ida. Hope, father ! Hast thou hope ? 

Lord of K. Yes, Ida ; hope in thee, who can'st 
retrieve 
The fortunes of our house, and give again 
Power to my hand, and peace unto the state ! 

Ida. I do thus much, who am a feeble woman ! 

Lord of K. Thou dost not know, thou little, 
trembling fool, 
That this land is in anarchy for thee — 
That 't is for thee so many brave men sleep 
In the cold arms of death ! 



298 PHILIP OP MAINE. 

Ida. My father, no ! — 

*T is insolent ambition and revenge 
Have poured out blood like water ! 

Lord of K. Pshaw, pshaw, girl ! 

What know 'st thou of these things ? But from the time 
Of the old town of Troy, unto this hour, 
Women upset the world, ha ! ha ! 

Ida. My father, 

Jest not ! What is the tenor of thy words ? 

Lord of K. Philip of Maine did ask thy hand in 
marriage, 
Which I refused ; thence rose this civil contest. 
Then was he poor, brought up in sordid thrift, 
Whom it had been disgrace for Ida Kronberg 
To have been wife unto. Now he has power, — 
And woe is me, that it should even be so ! 
Has given his name a terrible ascendance; 
And we must crouch beneath him, live his slaves, 
Be trampled on ; unless, like those who make 
Events their servitors — true wisdom's rule, 
We take him by his craft — yield but to keep 
The power which but in seeming we resign. 
Thy hand, my child, will heal this civil broil, 
Will give again dominion to thy father — 
What says my Ida ? He of Maine is noble ; - 
Is brave ; hath power ; is a mean man no longer ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 299 

Ida. When Philip sought my hand he was as 
noble, — 
Nobler than now ! His name had not a stain ! 

Lord of K. A sordid, pennyless lord, without 
respect ; 
Scarce raised above the vassals of the soil ! 

Ida. That humble, pennyless lord, I would have 
wedded, 
Because he then was worthy of my love. 

Lord of K. Hear I aright ! 

Ida. Thou hears't aright, my father, — 

Ah be not wroth, but hear me calmly on. 
Philip of Maine is a dishonoured man ! 
Thou wouldst not have me wed with such a one — 
My father, thou wouldst not ! 

Lord of K. Thou wouldst have wedded 

The son of a fallen house brought up in thrift — 
Poor as a hind, but not so serviceable-— 
One that was as a proverb and a jest — 
A needy lord, that in a threadbare jerkin 
Came as a wooer ! And now that he has gained 
Dominion and a name, why, in good sooth, 
Thou wilt not condescend to such a one ! 

Ida. Because he hath laid waste this wretched 
land ; 
Hath shewn himself a fierce, revengeful man, 
And is thy deadly, cruel enemy ! 



300 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Lord of K. I would retain my power by winning 
him. 

Ida. Is it to such a man thou'dst wed thy daugh- 
ter? 

Lord of K. Unsay what thou hast said — that 
thou 'dst have wedded 
Philip of Maine when he was low and needy ! 

Ida. Then was he true and gentle — a brave man — 
A loyal man, my father ! 

Lord of K. Could I think it, 

I 'd curse thee Ida, with my bitterest curse. 
Thou loved this man ! By heaven, if it be so — 
Say, didst thou love him ? 

Ida. Father, curse me not ! 

Enough of woe has been ; nay, do not curse, 
Lest God should register the sin in heaven ! 

Lord of K. Didst love this man ? 

Ida. The time is past — 

The time is gone for ever when I loved him ! 

Lord of K. Oh heaven and earth ! 

Ida. My gracious father, hear. 

I loved him with a first, true maiden's love — 
I loved him when a little child, my father — 
But as a sacrifice to holy duty 
I cast him forth from my sincerest heart, 
As an unworthy man — thine enemy ; 
The spoiler of thy people ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 301 

Lord of K. Thou hast loved him, 

And thou shalt wed him ! — Thou, against my will, 
Hast loved, and I will wed thee 'gainst thy will 
To him for punishment ! — By heaven I will ! 

Ida. Father, if I have ever warmed thy heart — 
If I have ever been delight unto thee— 
By whate'er love thou borest to my mother — ' 
And by the sacredness of her bequest 
Which gave me to thy care, her only child — 
Oh pity — save me from this cruel doom ! 

Lord of K. Out with thee! — thou art hateful to 
my sight ! — 
Thou lovedst that most beggarly, vile man ! 
And now that I am struggling, in his power, 
Thou wilt not lift a finger to my help ! 

Ida. Oh that my life could save thee ! 

Lord of K. Then consent — 

'T is a small thing thy father asks of thee — 
His power, dearer than his life's-blood, is in thy 
hands ! 

Ida. Oh, npt to wed him, father ! 

Lord of K. Then begone ! 

And never call me father — 1 11 be lord 
Until thou hast another, and by God 
He shall teach thee submission ! 

\_Ida retires, and he goes out by another 
door. 



302 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

SCENE III. 

Idas apartment. 

Enter philip. 

And here she dwelt ! Here passed her beautiful life ! 

A tender, humanizing influence 

Breathes through the room ! Ambition, hate, and 

vengeance, 
Have here no entrance : did I then believe 
That hate had conquered love, and hot ambition 
Driven from my heart all by-gone tenderness ? 
But to be near her — but to breathe the air 
Which she has breathed awakes all former love ; 
And worthier, now methinks, the blessed life 
Spent in all sweet and kindly charities, 
Though nameless, noiseless as an unseen rill, 
I'han the great conqueror's years of bloody glory ! 

Enter gaston* 

&ast. My noble lordj 'twere pity your sweet 
dreams 
In this fair lady's chamber should be broken— 
But I am here upon an embassy 
Allied to love, at least to matrimony ! 

Phil. Ha ! a capitulation of this sort ? 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 303 

Gast. Your noble prisoner offers his fair daughter, 
On the condition that you should restore 
To him all power i' the state ; yet should receive 
A rich and noble dowry with his daughter ; 
And further, you should bear at his decease, 
When the land's sceptre unto you devolves, 
As title of the state, Kronberg and Maine. 

Phil. Well, that is fair enough ! 

Gast. Do you say thus — - 

You that are lord already of this realm ! 
Is it for him to give as pleaseth him, 
And you most humbly to receive with thanks ? 
Thus will you yield your conquest and your birth- 
right ! 

Phil. I swore that he should offer me his daughter ! 

Gast. And then that you would wed her ? Noj 
not so ! 
Besides, this man is craftier than you are- 
Think you that he would keep his faith with you $ 
I tell you no ! This is a trick of cunning, 
To get you in his power. He knows your love, 
And by this passion will he work your ruin. 

Phil. 'T is easier said than done ! 

Gast. And if you yield 

One atom of the power you have achieved, 
A faction in the state will rise against you. 
The burghers' hearts already are estranged ; 



304 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Resentment grows against you hourly stronger — 
No longer now they speak below their breath ; — 
Rule them, or they rule you ! — and traitorous Kron- 

berg 
Will give you up to them as a peace-offering. 
[aside] And for my last night's pranks you would 
die by inches. 

Phil. Who counselled sending forth those ravening 
wolves 
Tnto the midnight city ? 

Gast. And who counselled 

The midnight murder of the prisoners ? 
For this the soldiers murmur. 

Phil. Give them gold — 

Mine is a ruined cause without the soldiers — 
It is a difficult course I have to steer : 
Contending currents strive against my bark, 
Fate knows if I shall clear them ! 

Gast. I '11 be pilot, 

And steer you through the storm — but hear me on ! 
The bodies of the citizens are piled 
In the great square, with such sad pomp of woe 
As the short time allows ; and oaths are ta'en 
Of vengeance upon you, save you will promise 
All the demands set forth with wordy wisdom 
In this long document. [aside] But I'll not 
shew 't : 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 61)5 

Here they require " that felon -traitor, Gaston, 
To be brought to condign punishment for 's sins ! " 

Phil. Thou 'rt ever prating of these citizens — 
Meth ought there was an embassy of marriage ! 

Gast. So fickle are the people, they demand 
Kronberg again for ruler ! 

Phil, He shall die ! 

Gast, And in the distant fields the lawless many 
Are listening to the long harangues of Roland, 
That mouthing, wordy fool, who never loses 
An opportunity for talk. There broods no good ! 

Phil. One might indeed believe my cause was 
doubtful 
To hear you talk ! 

Gast. Your 's is a doubtful cause 

While Kronberg lives — he forms a plea for faction. 

Phil. Now speak you to the point — Kronberg 
shall die ! 

Gast. Gold is less precious than the passing mo- 
ments. 

Phil. Promise- the citizens whate'er they ask. 

Gast. Ay, ay, I '11 promise them ! I' faith, you 
know 
Performance is a very different matter ! 

Phil. We shall not be so over-nice 'bout that ! 
And let us with a shew of seemly joy 

x 



306 PHILIP OF MAINE, 

Accept Lord Kronberg's offer. Still our prisoner, 
He falls into the trap he lays for me. 

Gast. Poison or steel will make us sure of him ! 
And then you have his daughter in your power. 

Phil. But honour's strictest law shall be observed 
Toward that most noble lady ! As her husband 
I get a fairer title to the state 
With Kronberg's partizans ! 

Gast. Well, as you will — 

Marry or not, as likes you ! [aside] She will undo 
This dainty statesman's trick ! 

Phil. What are you mumbling o'er ? Let us away, 
I '11 clasp my bride before the set of day ! 

[they go out together. 



SCENE IV. 

Apartment in the tower — Ida and Bertha. 

Berth. Oh do not yield unto this bloody man — 
Another day and succour will arrive — 
Fabian will leave no friend, no means untried — 
They call again for Kronberg in the city ; 
And Philip's reign, though told by so few hours, 
Is chronicled in blood. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 307 

Ida. I hear their steps — 

Leave me alone, dear Bertha, for this trial ! 

Berth. Within thy call will I await thy summons. 

[she goes out. 
Ida. Now for the dreadful meeting ! — How I 
tremble 
To meet the man who was so dear to me ! 

Enter philip, magnificently apparelled. 

Phil. Now do we meet without reproach or fear — 
Not as we parted, my own gentle Ida ! 

Ida. No, no, we do not meet as last we parted : 
Thou art not such as when we parted last — 
He was a gracious man, unstained with blood ; 
He wore not proud apparel, such as this ; 
He was a poor, brave man ! a guiltless man, 
Who might have called on heaven to be his pledge — 
Thou art not such as he ! 

Phil. But more than he ! 

I am the man on whom thy sire bestows thee, 
He was rejected by him ! 

Ida. Woe is me, 

That I must still oppose my father's will ! 
Though thou wert poor, clothed but in humble 

weeds ; 
Unsheltered from the pitiless winds of heaven ; 
Without a name, save what thy father won, 

x 2 



308 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Yet pure in soul, noble in principle, 

Gracious in deed and merciful of heart, 

I would have ta'en thee, spite the world's reproach. 

But tricked out in these gorgeous robes of state ; 

A name of terror unto weeping thousands ; 

With the offence of blood upon thy soul ; 

If thou didst lay the world's crown at my feet 

I must reject thee, Philip ! 

Phil. Fickle woman ! 

How art thou slave to every passing humour. 

Ida. Why should I tell of secret tears and prayers 
Poured out to heaven for thee ? It is heaven's will 
That I should see my dearest hopes depart ! 

Phil. It was for thee I strove — for thee 1 con- 
quered — 
Hast thou not wept the sorrows of the people ! 
Hast not deplored their wrongs, and proudly fashioned 
A lovely dream of glorious freedom out ? 
And was it not thyself who bade me be 
Protector of the people ? 

Ida. God forgive me ! 

For how hast thou fulfilled this glorious vision — 
How been protector of the ignorant people ? 
Hast thou not shed their blood ? Outraged their 

homes — 
And led them up, like hungry, ravening wolves, 
To prey upon each other ? Philip, Philip, 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 309 

Thou hast forgot thy holy enterprise 
To feed thine own revenge ! 

Phil. Name not revenge, 

Lest thou too tempt me to it ! 

Ida, Heaven be our shield — 

It will prescribe thee bounds, even as it limits 
The raging of the sea ! Oh how thou'rt fallen, — 
The apostates of the morning fell not lower ! 
Philip, I wept my ruined, lovely hopes 
With bitterer tears than ever woman shed ; 
But I have done with tears ; they moved not heaven, 
That loveth mercy ! But I will conjure thee 
By that unkind ambition which preferred 
Revenge and power to love, to risk no further, — 
And let the blood which has been shed suffice ! 

Phil. Oh yes, thy words have power ! Sweet 
maid, relent ! 
Thy tender mercies, like kind angels' wings, 
Bring blessings with them ; where I shall have 

wounded, 
Thou shalt pour in sweet balm ! 

Ida. Alas ! alas ! 

Thou hast left many wounds for me to heal ! 
No — henceforth we are widely separate- — 
Not e'en the Eternal One undoeth the past, 
And that which has been done hath sundered us ! 

Phil. Then upon thee lie every coming sin ! 



310 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

If thou keep not thy plighted faith with me, 
Neither will I keep faith. Thy father dies ! 

Ida. Philip, thou wilt not — dar'st not kill my 

father ! 
Phil. How dare I not ? As yet I have not found 
The deed I dared not do ! 

Ida. Perfidious man ! 

If this poor life can sate thy thirst of blood, 
Take it, but spare my father ! 

Phil. I have said it ! 

Ida. I gave thy father life — O spare thou mine ! 
I risked my life to save thy father's, Philip ! 
Phil. It was a woman's act — thus do not men ! 
Ida. Oh how does guilt put out each virtuous 
spark, 
Stifle each generous, noble sentiment ! 

Phil. Now for a little season, we will part — 
When next we meet, my hands shall yet be redder ! 

\_he goes out, 
Ida. Hence, hence ! What may be done, shall yet 
be done — 
We will not fall without a dying struggle— 
Where's Bertha, Segbert, good Count Nicholas ! 

[she goes into the inner room. 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 311 

ACT V.— SCENE I. 

The ruins of a mill, surrounded with wood. 

Enter mother schwartz, hans clef, roland, 
and many others. 

Roland. It neither shall be this man, neither that 
That shall be tyrant o'er us ! What 's this Philip 
Better than Kronberg, if his arm's as heavy ? 

Hans. We 've seen enough of him ! 

Mother S. We '11 none of him ! 

Others. We '11 none of him ! 

Roland. And this is he who swore 

To be a loving father to the people ; 
Clothes to the naked ; bread unto the hungry ! 

Hans. We are mistaken I — we are clean mistaken •! 

Roland. No, no, he 's a deceiver ! 

Mother S. There's that brewing 

Which will bring down a tempest 'bout his ears ! 

Roland. Anon they will be here who from the city 
Will bring us tidings of the general temper. 

Hans. They are here ! 

Enter several Men. 

Roland. Tell out your tidings quickly. 

1st Man. [throwing down a heap of garments'] 
These caps and handkerchiefs from off the dead 



312 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

I snatched in eager haste — thus and thus only 
Come tidings of your dead ! 

[the people gather round, recognizing the 
garments with loud lamentations and 
yells of indignation. 
Mother S. Ah, this was his ! Ah, this was my poor 

son's ! 
1st Man. 'T was from a mangled corpse I took that 

kerchief ! 
Mother S. My son ! my son ! But back tears to 
your source — 
I will shed blood, not tears ! 

Roland. What say the burghers, 

Those ancient friends of his ? 

2d Man. The general feeling 

Is clean against him now. They swear he gave 
The town to pillage but to save his own ! 

Hans. And that he did ! We're sure enough of 

that! 
2d Man. Gaston, they say's the very fiend himself — 
All saw his horrid doings yesternight — 
O' troth, there is some riddle 'bout that man ! . 

Hans. And let whoever sins, 'tis we are blamed 

for 't. 
Roland. Speak now of the condition of tire city. 
2d Man. There is no house that is not filled with 
mourning— 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 313 

The richest citizens were killed i' th' tumult — 

One -third the city is a heap of ruins — 

And little children, wandering up and down, 

Go wailing for their parents — parents too 

And friends, and wives and husbands seek their dead, 

'Mong heaps of fallen houses — everywhere, 

Deep oaths are taken of revenge on Philip. 

Mother S. All have their oaths of blood against 
that man ! 

Man. The soldiers too are discontent, — 'tis said 
A horrid massacre i' th' dead o' th/ night 
Has cut off every prisoner. 

Roland. There is hope ! — 

What guard is stationed 'neath the castle rock ? 

3d Man. The guard has been withdrawn. 

Roland. There's an old pathway, 

Think ye we might not get an entrance there ? 
Thereby it was that Philip made his entrance ! 

4th Man. I know it well ; yet 'twill be dangerous, 
More inaccessible from tumbled crags 
And fallen masonry than heretofore. 

Mother S. Our wrongs can force through rocks of 
adamant. 

Roland. 'T will suit our purpose ; now let all dis- 
perse, 
And when eve comes we will again assemble. 

[they disperse severally. 



314 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

SCENE II. 

Evening — the gallery of the castle — Philip pacing 
about, in deep thought. 

On, on unto the topmost verge of power ; 
And, as I yet ascend, still more doth grow 
The grasping wish for more ; — the aspiring wish 
Higher and higher to rise. This petty lordship, 
Why not a sovereign dukedom ? Wherefore not 
The Duke of Maine as good as Duke of Suabia ? 

And Kronherg dead ; the path is right before me. 
Ambition and revenge shall have their way! — 
But where is Gaston ? he, the ready tool 
Who does not start and cry " alack, my lord !" 
Ha ! here he comes ! 

Gast. No moment may be lost — 

Fabian and Segbert, and Count Nicholas 
Are hence. As firebrands in the standing corn 
Are they among the people ; and a rumour 
Has reached the town, that Suabia draweth near 
With a strong army for the aid of Kronberg. 
Do quickly what thou dost, and rid thyself 
Of one foe ere another takes the field ! 

Phil. Thou hast access unto the tower. Go thou, 
Poison or steel, use thou the surer means ! 

Gast. Nay, 't will be tenfold vengeance from thy 
hand. 



PHILIP OF mAine. 315 

Phil, [feeling at his dagger] 'T is sharp and true, 
but do thou mix a cup 
Of subtle poison. I would liefer that — 
And if he will not pledge me, why, there 's this ! 

Gast. I '11 mix a cunning potion that will do. 

Enter the lord of maine. 

My son ! my son ! hast thou decreed his death 1 

Phil. I have. 

Lord of M. Nay, do not tell me so. 

Phil, I have. 

Lord of M. Didst thou not love his gentle, angel 
daughter? 
Remember her, and do not harm his life. 

Gast. And be himself the victim ! 

Lord of M. It is thou 

That counsellest my son to these bad deeds ! 
Philip, she gave me life and liberty, 
And, but for her, thy father had been dead ! 

Phil. Whose hate was 't doomed thee to the 
gallows-tree ? 
Hence ! hence ! thou dost not know, for urgently 
The hour calls for his blood ! 

Lord of M. I leave thee not, 

Till thou hast given his life unto my prayer. 



31G PHILIP OF MAINE. 

GasU to Phil. Fortune is slipping through your 
hand, my lord, 
While you stand dallying thus. Away, old man ! 
Phil. I 'm ready. Let 's begone. 

[they go out together. 
Lord of M. Then, may the Avenger 
Take from thee thy ill-gotten power and station ! 
This is a place of blood and horrible outrage : 
I will away ; men's hearts are turned to stone. 
Better it were to hide with desert-beasts, 
Where 'tis a natural instinct to be cruel ! 

[he goes out* 

After a short time re-enter piiilip. 

I did not quail, nor did my heart upbraid me, 
When thousands lay beneath my conquering step, 
And from the helmet-crown unto the heel 
I was dyed crimson ; why then faints my soul, 
Trembling and drooping 'neath a mountain's weight 
Of miserable remorse for one man's blood ? — 
Ne'er till this moment, when my debt is paid, 
When I have conquered my great enemy, 
Quailed I, or wished undone aught that was done ! 
But hark ! What sounds are these — quick, com- 
ing steps, 
And hurried voices ? Am I grown a coward ? 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 317 



Enter gaston. 



Philip ! Philip ! now is a time for action : 

Why dost thou stare as one who walks in dreams ? 

Phil, Whence come those hurried sounds ? Whose 
are those steps ? 

Gast. The disaffected thousands from the fields 
Are on the walls — within the very castle ! 

Phil. How got they an access ? 

Gast. Even as thou didst ; 

By the old rock-path. Hundreds more have entered — ■ 
The portals have they fired ; and hark their cries — ■ 
Vengeance and blood ! 

Phil. Hence ; draw the soldiers out, 

And man the walls. Strike every villain down 
That sets his foot within the castle gate. 

Gast. They fight with us for every inch of ground ; 
They are within the walls — the place is fired ; 
Accursed knaves, born for the gibbet-tree ! 

Phil, [drawing his sword~] I'll teach them what 
the cry of vengeance meaneth ! 

[he rushes out — Gaston folloivs him. 

[a confused noise, and yelling cries are 
heard approaching, and a rabble force 
their way in, with torches in their 
hands. 



318 PHILIP OF MA INC. 

Man, Down with the billets ! Here ! here ! Fire 
these hangings ! 

[they hurl furniture into the middle of the 
gallery, tear down pictures and hang- 
ings, which they pile together and set 
fire to. 

Enter mother schwa rtz, with other women, covered 
with dust and blood. 

Mother S. Spare not for fire ! Now for a funeral 
pile, 
To celebrate, my son, thy memory ! 
They shall say, this was for the woman's son ! 
Out with ye, are ye plundering ? Give me blood ! 
He whom I seek is hence ! Come, come with me ! 
[she snatches up a firebrand and rushes 
out of the gallery ; the women follow 
her, bearing off booty. The gallery is 
filled with smoke and flames. 



SCENE III. 

The small chamber in the tower — Ida and Bertha. 

Berth. Some new event is happening.. May't 
please heaven 
For our deliverance ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 319 

Ida. Those are the people's voices ; 

The yelling cries of the triumphant rabble. 
And, mercy ! those quick lights that through the 

darkness 
Shoot up to heaven are flames ! The place is burn- 
ing! 

Berth, [trying to force the door~] 'T is barred! 'tis 
doubly barred ! There is no issue ! 
Here, here, we miserably shall die by fire ! 
Oh, Ida, vain thy prayer ! — They have no mercy — 
That old man will not move his cruel son 
To save thy father, and we here shall perish ! 
Oh, can there be Omnipotence in heaven, 
Who sees these things, yet sends no angel down 
To smite and to deliver ! 

Ida. Nay, despair not ; 

I do believe some power will save us yet ! 

Berth. Oh, do not mock me ! there 's no ruth in 
heaven, 
On earth there is no goodness ! 

Ida. [listening at the door] Some one comes ! 

Enter the lord of maine. 

Ida. Is good Lord Kronberg safe ? 
Berth. And what do mean 

These horrid sounds of tumult, and these flames ? 
Lord of M. Come forth, my noble ladies ! 'T is an 
hour 



320 PHILIP OF MAINE 

Of peril and alarm ! Will you confide 
In an old man ? I am no soldier, lady ; 
But, so God help me, I will guard you well ! 

Ida. I know you, and will trust in you ! Oh guide 
us 
Unto Lord Kronb erg's cell ! Where lies my father ? 
Lord of M. Your noble father 's free. 
Ida. Your voice is sad, 

And yet your words are pleasant. Lead us to him ! 
Lord of M. Quick ! follow me ! 

[they wrap themselves in their cloaks and 
follow him. 



SCENE IV. 

Another part of the castle — citizens stand with Lord 
Kronberys body on a bier. 

1st Citizen. Name not his faults. I knew him 
when a boy ; 
I was his favoured playmate ; in those years 
Together did we ride, and at the target 
Together shoot our arrows. I ne'er thought 
Then to have borne him in a plight like this ! 

2d Citizen. He was a hard task-master ! 

3d Citizen. But not harder 

Than such be ever. Even from Pharoali downwards 
To this day's idol, Philip ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 321 

4th Citizen. I remember, 

It must be five and forty years agone, 
When his good mother 

3d Citizen. Ay, there was a lady, 

Fair as an angel, lull of truth and kindness — 
The Lady Ida much resembles her. 

5th Citizen. Haste, haste ! the way is clear ! The 
contest thickens 
About the northern tower. O woful night — 
With fire and blood, wild shrieks and horrid curses, 
And crash of falling walls ! But forward now ! 

[they proceed. 

Enter the lord of maine conducting ida, ^bertha. 

Lord of M. [hastily retreating'] Ah, not this way | 
No, no ! a moment's pause. 
[aside] Yon is a sight that must not meet their eyes ! 

Citizens re-enter with the body. 

1st Citizen. It shall not be exposed unto dishonour ! 
Seek out a guard, and stand around the bier ! 
[soldiers rush in] Ho ! soldiers, will ye not defend the 
dead ? 
Soldier. We fight for Philip of Maine, not for the 

dead ! 
Ida. The dead, said ye? Is good Lord Kronberg 
dead ? 
Speak to me, some kind soul, for I 'm his daughter ! 



322 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

1st Soldier, [aside] She doth unman me ! 

2d Soldier, [aside] 'T is a noble lady ! 

[Ida perceives the bier, and walks slowly 
towards it. 
Lies the dead here ? Soldiers and citizens, 
Lies here your lord and leader ? Oh, will no one 
Tell me if 't is not so ? 

1st Citizen. Alas ! 't is even so ! 

J da. 'T was a sad voice that told me he was free ! 
The freedom of the grave — ah, woful freedom ! 

[she slowly uncovers the face of the dead, 
gazes upon it, and becomes deadly pale. 

Citizen. Dear, innocent soul ! 

Soldier. I will not draw a sword 

Against the Lady Ida, nor her cause ! 

Ida. I never looked upon the dead till now — 
And this is my dead father, who hath fallen 
By cruel perfidy ! — Not in the field 
He met his mortal foe, but in the cell 
Of the deep dungeon : a fierce, cruel foe ! 
Ye do not know, soldiers and citizens, 
The heartless man of blood whom ye have chosen ! 
The dead was mild and merciful, compared 
With him you call your master ! Pious friends, 
Carry him hence ! — This is a den of crime ; . 
A house of cruelty and fear and blood ! 
Carry him hence into a holy place, 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 323 

So Heaven preserve you to your childrens' arms, 
And keep your sacred homes inviolate ! 

Soldiers. We will defend the dead, and Lady Ida ! 

1st Citizen. Whither shall we support this honoured 
bier? 

Ida. W^ould he had known your loyalty and 
goodness ! 
To the Cathedral — 't is a holy place ; 
And there will I retire : and let all loyal, 
All brave and noble hearts around me rally ; 
And, as the dead would have maintained the right, 
So God and all good men assisting me, 
Will we retrieve this land's forlorn estate ! 

[the bier is borne forward; and Ida, 
overcome by her emotions, is supported 
out by Bertha and the Lord of Maine, 
attended by crowds of citizens and 
soldiers. 



Y ^ 



324 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

SCENE V. 
Past midnight — outside the castle wall — the castle is 
burning — the roof has fallen in, and immense volumes 
of flame, wrapped round the towers, pierce through 
the blackness of the ascending smoke, like fiery Alps 
— hundreds of people are seen rushing to and fro ; 
some driven back by soldiers, others carrying off 
booty — wild shouts and yells of triumph are heard 
amid the roar of the flames and the crashing fall of 
huge piles of buildings. 

Enter philip and gaston. 
Gast. 'T is vain to struggle more ! Fire is the 

victor. 
Phil. Now, draw the soldiers back, and leave the 
pile 
To those accursed plunderers. Ere the morn, 
'T will be the grave of hundreds, who now press 
Impatient through the burning atmosphere, 
To snatch a paltry booty ! 

Gast. As thou wilt — 

'T is a retrieveless game. Thy sun has set — 
The star of thy ascendency has fallen ! 

Phil. Hast not intelligible words ?— -Speak plain ! 
Gast. I'll speak it plain enough ! — Lord Kronberg 
heads 
The burghers even now ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 325 

Phil. Peace, liar ! he is dead ! 

Gast. But being dead, is honoured more than 
living — 
His daughter hath made speeches o'er the body ; 
Shed tears, and whined with pretty artifice, 
Till they have all unsaid their oaths to thee ! 

Phil. Thou that didst keep the body, hast 
betrayed me ! 

Gast. An old man has betrayed thee ; even thy 
father — 
Better by far he had died upon the gibbet ! 

Phil. Slanderer, for shame ! 

Gast. Nay, hang me, if I spoke not 

Your secret thoughts. — But now the time is precious ! 
Draw off the soldiers who yet true remain ; 
Get to the camp, upon the plain of Sarni, 
And hold thyself prepared, for on the morrow 
There will be work to do, than this more bloody— 
And as thou play'st this desperate game, depends 
Thy waning fortune. 

Phil. Suabia to the field 

Hath brought his fresh ten thousand. 

Gast. You may thank 

The gentle Lady Ida and her Counts 
For this young gallant rival. You have seen him — 
A not unfitting husband for the lady ! 



326 PHILIP OF MAINE. 

Phil. Thou cockatrice — thou stabber of the 

wounded ! 
Gast. Ha ! ha ! you have some pretty names by 
heart ! 
[aside] I knew that this would gall him ! 

Phil. Unkind friend — ■ 

I trusted unto thee my soul's best secrets ; 
I did believe thee not the worldly spirit 
That stabs the bleeding heart — then jeering asks 
i( How is it with you now ?" — The cruellest blow 
Of my most cruel fortune has been this ! 

Gast. Nay, take 't not so to heart ! I would but 
urge thee 
To try thy fortune against mighty odds, 
And conquer fate ! 

Phil. My soul is faint within me ; 

Hence, let the morrow for itself provide ! 

[he goes. 
Gast* He beareth poisoned arrows in his heart ; 
Hatred and jealousy, and crushed ambition ! 
If these will not o'ercome the spirit of man, 
Then there 's a devil in him. 

[he goes, 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 327 



SCENE VI. 



The following evening — the interior of the cathedral— 
the body of Lord Kronberg laid in state before the 
altar — Ida, in deep mourning, sits upon the steps 
beside it, and Bertha and other ladies stand about 
her — the Lord of Maine wrapped in his cloak, 
leans against a monument apart from the rest — the 
doors are guarded by armed burghers. 

Enter count fabian in haste. 

Burgher. What is the news ? 

Fab. An entire victory! 

A bloody field is fought— the day is ours — 
Philip has fled — the remnant of his army 
Have yielded to our friends — a moment more, 
And brave Count Nicholas will here arrive 
With message from the Duke to Lady Ida : 
Even now he comes. 

Enter count Nicholas. 

Count Nich. May 't please the Lady Ida 
To hear a message from the field of fight ? 

\_Ida rises. 
God has been good unto this troubled land, 
And given her victory o'er her enemies. 



328 PHILIP OF MAINE, 

Yet here the noble conqueror entereth not 
Save as your good ally, by your consent. 
His army, camped without the town remains — - 
Grant him to lay his good sword at your feet ! 

Ida, Brave Count, thou lov'dst my father. Let the 
dead 
Be honoured with all rites of sepulture, 
Before the land rejoice for victory. 
For me, a mighty debt is yet unpaid 
To grief and filial duty. To some house 
Of holy solitude I will retire 
A season ; and meantime confide to thee, 
And such good men as thou, the nation's rule. 
Not my own natural strength has borne me through 
The great events and awful of this time. 
Nature is weak, and now doth need repose : 
But let one general thanksgiving ascend 
To gracious heaven, which has restored us peace, 
Though at a price so great. 

And from the duke 
I crave forgiveness, that I meet him not; 
The mournful duties of the time excuse me. 

[Count Nicholas goes out. 
Lord of M. They said my son had fled. I must 
away ! 
He is my son — the evil hour is dark ; 
And misery and remorse arc cruel foes ! 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 329 

Where victory is, is not a place for me — 
I was not needed in his hour of pride, 
In sorrow and dismay I shall be lacked. 
O fare thee well ! Be merciful, dear lady : 
He loved thee once, and for thy sake he fell ! 
And if he fall into thy power, have mercy — - 
Think not upon the dead, but on the time 
When he was worthy of thee ! 

Ida. Fare thee well — 

Go ! — and may heaven so gift thy words with grace 
As to restore him to its blessed peace ! — 
Farewell, thou kindest, noblest heart, farewell ! 

[the Lord of Maine kisses her hand, and, 
folding his face in his cloak, goes out. 



SCENE VII. 

Three days after the battle — the dusk of the evening — 
the interior of a cave in a dreary forest — Philip 
lying asleep ; the Lord of Maine bending over him. 

Lord of M. It is a blessed sleep ! It will restore 
him 
To his right mind ! Oh that we might abide 
In some deep wood, 'mong mountains far away ; 
Some wilderness, where foot of man ne'er trod ; 



330 PHILIP OP MAINE. 

Some desert island, in an unknown sea, 
Where he might wear his life in holy peace, 
And I be the true friend that tended on him ! 

Phil, [opening his eyes] Where am I ? and what 

gentle sounds are these ? 
Lord of M. Sleep yet, my son ! Thou know'st 
how I did watch 
O'er thee a child ; how sung to thee o* nights — 
Recal that time, and sleep ! 

Phil. I cannot sleep ! — - 

My father, thou hast been a gracious sire, 
And I have owed thee duties manifold ; 
Thou hast been good and kind ; yet one more kind- 
ness 
Do me this day — my arm is weak and faint, 
Strike thou my dagger in this wretched breast ! 
Lord of M. What askest thou ! It is a sinner's 

thought ! 
Phil. Wilt see me dragged, a spectacle, a show ? 
Wilt hear them sing their ballads in my face ? 
Hark ! hark ! I hear their steps ! Give me the 
dagger ! 
Lord of M. Nay, 'tis no sound, but the low whis- 
pering wind ! 
Phil. I tell thee they are here ! Withstand me 
not — 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 331 

There is a strength like madness in my arm — 
I will defend myself! 

[he starts up and seizes a dagger. 

Enter gaston. 

Ha ! is it thou ! 

Gast. Peace be with thee ! nay, put thy dagger 
down! 
I am thy friend — and bring a band of friends 
To reassure thy fortunes— Give's thy hand ! 

Phil, [giving his hand] I did believe thee better 
than thou seem'st ; 
My heart was slow to misconceive of thee ! 

Gast. Now shalt thou know me truly as I am : 
Now will I bring thy truest friends unto thee ! 

[_a band of soldiers rush in and seize 
Philip. 
Phil. Ay now I know thee, thou accursed Judas ! 
Gast. But I've a better price than Judas had — 
A better price for a less worthy man ! 

Phil. My life's severest blow has been thy friend- 
ship! 

Enter mother Schwartz, with a drawn dagger. 

Now will I have thy blood for my son's blood ! 
Soldier, Off woman, off ! Alive he must be taken* 



332 rillLIP OF MAINE. 

Mother S. I '11 have his blood ! I will not break 
my oath ! 

[she suddenly stabs him. 
There's that will send thee howling to my son ! 
Soldier. Thou 'st robbed us of our price ! take thy 
reward ! 

[lie stabs her. 

Phil. My day is done ! Let me lie down and die ! 

Lord of M. Within my arms ! thy father's arms, 

my son ! 

Cast up thy thoughts to heaven ! think not of man ! 

Soldier. He 's dead, he hears thee not ! Give us 

the body ! 
Father. Ye shall not part me from this precious 
clay— 
Where'er ye bear it, thither will I follow ! 



333 



Achzib, throwing off his disguise, entered the city 
in his own character. It was a city of mourning, 
which he had made so ; but his evil nature saw in 
human misery, material rather of mirth than com- 
passion. He would much rather have torn open the 
wounds of social life, than have seen them healing ; 
but now was the calm after the storm, the reaction 
after excitement and emotion, and men coveted so 
much to be at rest, that not even Achzib could have 
agitated another tumult. He therefore adopted the 
spirit of the time, and railed against liberty as 
anarchy, against renovators as anarchs. 

It was with malignant pleasure he saw how the 
holy cause of freedom was thrown back, by the out- 
rages which ambition and the license of evil had 
committed in her name : he saw how virtuous men 
and honest patriots, who had joined Philip against 
despotism, but abandoned him in his bloody and 



334 

ambitious career, now came forth from their retire- 
ments, and rallying round the person of Ida, united 
heart and hand to re-establish the old order of things, 
disgusted with liberty, as with a lying priestess, and 
in despair of renovating social life or social policy : 
he saw the people sit down, willing to endure 
patiently whatever evil power might inflict upon 
them, provided they were protected from rapine and 
blood, and the pretences of ambition to make them 
again free ; and satisfied that all here was as he 
could desire, he turned his steps to another scene of 
action. 



It was on an evening, bright and balmy as one in 
Paradise, when Achzib strolled into the place of 
public resort adjacent to a great city. On its smooth 
roads were seen the equipages of the grandees, and 
equestrian companies of gentlemen and ladies, who, 
governing their high-bred and mettlesome horses 
with graceful ease, reminded the spectator rather of 
the pages of Ariosto than of a scene in real life. On 
seats under the old leafy trees, or on the bright green 
turf, sat men, women and children, in their holiday 
attire, all beautiful as separate groups, but more 
beautiful as forming one great whole of human enjoy- 
ment. 



335 

There was a poet among them, but with feelings 
different to those of others ; — their's was an individual 
happiness only, but his was a warm, broad philan- 
thropy, forgetting self, embracing all, loving all, and 
pouring out thanksgiving that man was enabled, both 
old and young, rich and poor, to go forth and rejoice. 

Achzib approached, and took the vacant seat beside 
him. ei Considering," said he, " the ill-condition of 
society, the tyranny of rulers, and the misery of the 
subordinate classes, there is no inconsiderable mea- 
sure of human enjoyment even in a space narrow as 
this." 

" Man's capacity for enjoyment," replied the poet, 
even under circumstances unfavourable to general 
happiness, is one of the most beautiful and beneficent 
ordinations of Providence. A balmy atmosphere and 
a fine sunset, common occurrences of nature as these 
are, contribute immensely to human felicity. Look 
around us — and of these hundreds, not one of whom 
but has his own peculiar cares and anxieties, disease 
or distress of mind, and yet what a universal senti- 
ment of happiness pervades all ! A sight like this 
awakens my spirit to a loftier worship and a more 
tender gratitude than ten homilies ! " 

" But," replied Achzib, " the enjoyment of these 
ft. 
hundreds consists in exhibiting themselves or their 

magnificence on so fine an evening. How would the 



33G 

bright sunset exhilarate the heart of yonder Countess, 
except it shone on her jewelled attire ? It is solely the 
love of self-display that brings out these gay and 
happy people." 

" Shame on thee!" said the Poet, " thine is a 
cynical spirit. What is the gaze of the many to that 
young mother and her boy ? " 

" I grant they are a pretty sight," said Achzib ; 
" the child is passingly fair, and the mother dotes on 
him." 

" How beautiful," exclaimed the Poet, " is the 
love which a mother bears to her child! I mean not 
that yearning, trembling anxiety, with which she 
regards her grown-up offspring entering upon the 
cares and temptations of the world ; but that hope- 
ful, joyful, unselfish love, which a mother feels for 
her first-born. She is young ; the world has allure- 
ments for her, but a stronger impulse is on her 
heart ; she is willing to spend and be spent, to 
watch and be weary ; and the clasping of his little 
arms round her neck, and the pure out-gushing love 
of his innocent spirit, are her sufficient reward ! " 

" It is but the instinct of all animals," said 
Achzib. 

" Yes ; but ennobled by a sublimer principle," 
replied the Poet. " The guardian angel of a child 
is a gentle Christian mother ; she protects not its 



337 

outward life only, but informs and purifies, and ex- 
alts that nobler existence which elevates man above 
the brute." 

" I wonder," said Achzib, after a moment's pause, 
" whether an infidel mother ever took as much pains 
to instruct her child in unbelief as a Christian mother 
does in belief." 

" Tis an unheard-of thing!" said the poet. " A 
mother could not teach her little child to deny God ! 
'T is a monstrous thought — an outrage to our nature 
but to conceive it." 

"In what way," inquired Achzib, " would the 
affection of a mother be made the mode of temptation? 
for every virtue has its appropriate temptation, and 
divines teach that the highest virtue consists in the 
resistance of evil !" 

" Thine are strange speculations," said the poet; 
" but the dearly-beloved child is often a snare to a 
parent's heart ; it has been an idol between the soul 
and God, and He has sometimes mercifully taken the 
child to keep the parent from sin." 

" I have heard as much," said Achzib, and fell 
into a long silence. 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 



z 2 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 



PERSONS. 

OLAF. 

TERESA, HIS WIFE. 

PAOLO, THEIR CHILD. 

ACHZIB, AS A NORTHERN HUNTER. 

HULDA, AN OLD WOMAN. 

SCENE I. 

A little chapel in a gloomy northern forest — Teresa on 
her knees before the image of the Virgin. 
Ter. Thou, that didst bear a pain that had no 
healing — 

An undivided misery, 
Which unto kindred heart knew no appealing, 

O, hear thou me ! 
I tell thee not mine own peculiar woe ; 

I tell thee not the want that makes me poor, 
For thou, dear Mother of God, all this dost know ! — 
But I beseech 'thy blessing, and thy aid ; 
Assure me, where my nature is afraid, 

And where I murmur, strengthen to endure! 

[she bows her head, kneeling in silence — as she 
prepares to leave the chapel, enter paolo, 
with a few snow-drops in his hand. 



342 THE SORROW Of TERESA, 

Paol. Mother, in Italy I used to gather 
Sweet flowers ; the fragrant lily, like a cup 
Chiselled in marble, and the rich, red rose, 
And carry them, an offering to Our Lady ; 
Think' st thou she will accept such gifts as these, 
For they are not like flowers of Italy— 
But they are such, dear mother, as grow here ? 

Ter. My boy, she will accept them ! Gracious 
Virgin, 
She would receive a poorer gift than this ; 
She would accept the will without the gift, 
foi? she doth know the heart ! There, on the shrine 
Lay them, my boy, and pray if thou have need ; 
Fear not, for she is gracious, — so is God ! 

Paol. [laying the flowers at the feet of the Virgin] 
I have no prayer, dear mother, save for thee, 
And that is in my heart. I cannot speak it, 
Thou didst weep so, when last I prayed for thee ! 

Ter. [kissing him~\ It is enough, my boy, the Holy 
Mother 
Knoweth what is within thy inmost heart ! 

[she again bows herself before the Virgin^ 
then taking the child's hand, goes out. 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 343 



SCENE II. 

Night — the same forest; the pine trees are old and 
splintered, and covered with snow ; it is a scene of 
desolation — at a little distance a small house is seen 
through an opening of the wood. 

Enter achzib, as a northern hunter. 

Hun. And this is their abode ! A mighty change, 
From a proud palace on the Arno's side, 
To a poor cabin in a northern wild ! 
Let me retrace the history of this pair : — 
He was Count Spazzi — young and rich, and proud, 
Ambitious and determined. Fortune brought 
Unto his knowledge fair Teresa Cogni, 
The daughter of an exiled chief of Corinth ; 
Beautiful as her own land, and pure 
As her own cloudless heavens. It is a tale 
So long, so full of sorrow and of guile, 
Of heart- ache and remorseless tyranny, 
That now I may not stop to trace it out. 
But she was forced to marry that stern man, 
After her father's death had given her 
Into his power. — Enough, it was a marriage 
Where joy was not ; but where the tyrant smiled 
Because his pride and will were gratified. 



344 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

Next followed lawless years of heedless crime ; 

To those, the desperate strife between us two, 

Wherein I made the vow which I have kept, 

How, it now matters not. I watched him fall, 

Impelled by my fierce hate, until at length 

[ saw him banished from his native land. 

Meantime that gentle partner of his fall, 

Bore, with a patience which was not of earth, 

All evils of their cruel destiny. 

But she was now a mother — and for him, 

That docile boy, whose spirit was like hers, 

Ever- enduring and so full of kindness, 

What mother would not bear all misery 

And yet repine not, blessed in the love 

Of that confiding spirit ! Thus it was. 

And they three went forth, exiles from their land ; 

One with the curse of his own crimes upon him ; 

Two innocent as doves, and only cursed 

In that their lives and fortunes were bound up 

With that bad man's. 

He is a hunter now ; 
And his precarious living earns with toil 
And danger, amid natures like his own : 
And here I might have left him to live out 
The term of his existence, had I not 
Seen how the silent virtues of the wife, 
And the clear, innocent spirit of the boy, 



THE SORROW OF TERESA, 345 

Have gained ascendance o'er him ; and besides, 

Sure as I am of Spazzi, 't is for her, 

My seventh victim, that I tread these wilds ; 

For will she not curse God, if from her sight 

Is ta'en that precious child, and hate her husband, 

By whom it shall appear the deed is done ? 

She will, she will — I know this mother's heart ! 

And on the morrow, as a skilful hunter, 

I shall present myself before her husband, 

No more Count Spazzi, but the hunter Olaf. 

[he goes farther into the forest, 



SCENE III. 

The following morning — the interior of the house in the 
forest — Teresa sitting near the fire — Paolo kneeling 
upon a footstool at her side. 

Paol. And now, dear mother, tell me that old tale, 
About the little boy who prayed that Jesus 
Might come and play with him. 

Ter. I will, my love. 

[she sings in a low recitative, 

* Among green, pleasant meadows, 
All in a grove so wild, 
Was set a marble image 

Of the Virgin and the Child. 



* A free translation of one of Herder's beautiful legends. 



346 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

There oft, on summer evenings, 
A lonely boy would rove, 

To play beside the image 
That sanctified the grove. 

Oft sate his mother by him, 
Among the shadows dim, 

And told how the Lord Jesus 
Was once a child, like him. 

" And now from highest heaven 
He doth look down each day, 

And sees whate'er thou doest, 
And hears what thou dost say ! " 

Thus spoke his tender mother : 
And on an evening bright, 

When the red, round sun descended 
'Mid clouds of crimson light, 

Again the boy was playing, 

And earnestly said he, 
" Oh beautiful child Jesus, 

Come down and play with me ! 

" I will find thee flowers the fairest, 
And weave for thee a crown ; 

I will get thee ripe, red strawberries, 
If thou wilt but come down ! 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 347 

" Oh Holy, Holy Mother, 

Put him down from off thy knee ; 

For in these silent meadows 

There are none to play with me!" 

Thus spoke the boy so lonely, 

The while his mother heard, 
But on his prayer she pondered, 

And spoke to him no word. 

That self-same night she dreamed 

A lovely dream of joy ; 
She thought she saw young Jesus 

There, playing with the boy. 

" And for the fruits and flowers 
Which thou hast brought to me, 

Rich blessing shall be given 
A thousand-fold to thee ! 

" For in the fields of heaven 
Thou shalt roam with me at will, 

And of bright fruits, celestial, 
Shall have, dear child, thy fill ! " 

Thus tenderly and kindly 

The fair child Jesus spoke ; 
And full of careful musings, 

The anxious mother woke. 



348 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

And thus it was accomplished 
In a short month and a day ? 

That lonely boy, so gentle, 
Upon his death-bed lay. 

And thus he spoke in dying : 

" Oh mother dear, I see 
The beautiful child Jesus 

A-coming down to me! 

" And in his hand he beareth 
Bright flowers as white as snow, 

And red and juicy strawberries, — 
Dear mother, let me go ! " 

He died — but that fond mother 

Her sorrow did restrain, 
For she knew he was with Jesus, 

And she asked him not again ! 

Paol. I wish that I had been that boy, dear 

mother ! 
Ter. How so, my Paolo, did not that .boy die, 

And leave his mother childless ? 
Paol. Ah, alas 

I had forgotten that ! But, mother dear, - 
Thou couldst not be so wretched, wanting me, 
As I, if thou wert not ! It breaks my heart 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 349 

Only to think of it ; and I do pray, 

Morning and night, that I may never lose thee ! 

Ter. My precious child, heaven is so very good, 
I do believe it will not sunder us 
Who are so dear, so needful to each other ! 

Paol. Let us not speak of parting ! And, indeed, 
I will not be a hunter when a man ; 
I will not leave thee early in a morning, 
And keep away from thee for days and days ! 
I do not love the chase, it frightens me ; 
The horrid bark of wolves fills me with dread. 
I dream of them at night ! 

Ter. Thou shalt not, love ! 

And yet, what couldst thou be, if not a hunter, 
In these wild regions, Paolo ! 

Paol. Oh no, mother, 

I will not be a hunter ! They are fierce, 
They have loud angry voices. Dearest mother, 
I tremble when I hear my father speak ; 
I wish he was as kind, and spoke as sweetly 
As thou dost. 

Ter. Hush, my Paolo — say not thus- — 

Thy father is a bold and skilful hunter, — 
A very skilful hunter. 

Paol. Yes, I know it ; 

I 've often heard it said. But tell me why 
Men are so stern ! If I am e'er a man 



350 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

I will be kind and gentle ; and the dogs 
Shall not start up whene'er they hear my step, 
And skulk away from the warm, pleasant hearth ! 
I will love all things, mother ; I will make 
All things love me ! 

Ter. My dearest, gentle boy, 

I do believe thou wilt ! 

Paol. Mother, hast heard 

My father goes unto the chase to-day, 
And that strange hunter with him ! 

Ter. Nay, my love, 

In this wild storm they will not go to hunt. 

Paol, I saw them even now. The sledge is 
ready, 
With the horse harnessed to 't ; and, mother dear, 
We shall have such a long and quiet day, — 
5 T will be so happy ! And oh, wilt thou tell me 
About thy home at Corinth, and the time 
When from the morning to the blessed eve 
Thou sangest to the music of thy lute ; 
Or wander'dst out with kind and merry friends ; 
Or tendedst thy sweet flowers ; — and tell me too 
About the bright, blue, restless sea at Corinth — 
And sing me songs and hymns in thy Greek 

tongue, 
And hear how I can sing them after thee — 
Wilt thou, dear mother ? 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 351 

Ter. I will indeed, my love ! 

But hark ! thy birds are chirping for their meal* 
Go, feed them, my sweet boy. 

PaoL Yes, I will feed them, 

And then there will be nothing all the day 
To take me from thy side ! 

[he goes out. 

Ter. Thou dear, dear child ! 

Thou happy, innocent spirit ! 'T is o'er-payment, 
A rich o'er-payment of my many woes, 
To see thee gather up such full enjoyment 
Within the narrowed limits of the good 
Which thy hard fortune gives thee ! And no more 
Let me account myself forlorn and stripped, 
Whilst I have thee, my boy ! 

But hark ! here comes 
My husband ! 

Enter olaf, muffled in his hunting dress. 

Olaf. Where 's the boy ! I hunt to-day. 

Ter. Not in this storm, my husband ! 
Olaf. In this storm ! 

Where is the boy ? I heard him here, just now. 
Ter. Why, why the boy? What dost thou want 

with him ? 
Olaf. He shall go out with me on this day's hunt. 
Ter. Oh no ! not so — he must not go to-day ! 



352 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

Olaf. Why, 'tis a puny, feeble-hearted thing, 
Whom thou hast fondled with and fooled, till nought 
Of a boy's spirit is within his heart ! 
But he shall go with me, and learn to dare 
The perils of the forest ! 

Ter. But this once — • 

This once, my husband, spare him — and when next 
Thou goest to the hunt, he shall go with thee! 

Olaf. This day he shall go with me ! Thou 
wouldst teach 
The boy rebellion ! He shall go with me ! 

Ter. Nay, say not so — he does not love the chase ! 

Olaf. 'Tis me he does not love — and for good 
reason, — 
Thou ever keeps him sitting at thy side, 
A caded, dwindled thing that has no spirit ! 
Look at the other children of the forest ; 
They are brave, manly boys ! 

Ter. Alas, my husband, 

Thou hast forgotten, 't is a tender flower 
Transplanted to a cold, ungenial clime ! 

Olaf. Say not another word ! Thou hear'st my 
will ! 

Enter paolo ; he runs to his mother s side. 

Ter. Thy father wishes thee to hunt to-day. 
Paol. Oh, not to-day, dear mother ! 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 353 

Olaf. And why not ? 

It ever is thy cry, " Oh not to-day !" 
I pr'y thee what new fancy 's in thy head, 
That thou canst not go with me ? 

Paol. I besought 

My mother to sing me her Corinth songs ; 
To tell me of the groves and of the flowers, 
And of that happy home that was more fair 
Than even was ours, in pleasant Italy ; 
And she has promised that she will, my father. 

Olaf. Ha! ha! is 't so? — 'Tis even as 1 thought. 
I know wherefore these stories of the past ! 
Mark me, Teresa, if thou school him thus, 
I '11 sunder ye ! — Thou need'st not clasp thy hands ; 
For on my life I '11 do it ! 

Paol. [weeping'] Father, father, 

Part me not from my mother, and indeed 
I will go with you. 

Ter. [aside to Olaf] Pray thee, speak him kindly ! 

Olaf. Come, I '11 be thy companion ! I will teach 
thee 
To be a man ; — dry up these childish tears ! 

Ter. My sweet boy, do not weep ! Go out this 
day, 
Thy mother prays it of thee, and bring back 
A little ermine, we will make it tame ; 
It shall be thine, my Paolo, and shall love thee. 

2 A 



854 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

Paol. I will go, dearest mother — nor will cry 
Though the gaunt, hungry wolves bark round about, 
[aside] But, mother dear, will you sit by my side 
When we come back, and sing me fast asleep ? 
I have such horrid dreams of wolves at night. 

Ter. I will, indeed I will, my dearest love ! 

Olaf. Come, come, why all this fondling ? We '11 
be back 
Long ere the night. 

Ter. Come, now I '11 put thee on 
Thy cloak, and that warm cap of ermine skin 
I made for thee last winter ! [they go out. 

Olaf. How she sways him ! 

With a sweet word she guides him as she will ! 
Would that the child loved me but half as well ; 
Heaven help me ! but I am a rough, bad man, 
And have deserved neither her love nor his ! 
But now the sledge is ready. [he goes out. 



SCENE IV. 

Near sunset — a dreary, desolate region, surrounded 
with ice -mountains — the Hunter drives a sledge 
rapidly forward, in the back part of which sit Olaf 
and Paolo. 

Olaf. Where is this wild? I know not where 
thou drive st ! 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 3.55 

Hunter. Below our feet lies the eternal ice 
Of the great sea ! 

Olaf. Our prey abides not here ! 

Hunt. We '11 find enough, anon ! 

Olaf. Thou dost not know 

The track on which thou go'st. — Here only dwells 
The gaunt and savage wolf ! and hark— even now 
I hear their hark ! 

Paol. Oh, are there wolves a-nigh ? 

Hunt. Ay, they are nigh, look in that black abysm, 
It is a wild wolfs den ! 

Olaf. Thou braggart hunter, 

Is this thy wondrous skill ? Wheel round the sledge 
Before the horse is maddened with the cry ! 
There is no time to lose ! Pull in the beast ! 

Hunt. It will not do — the wolves are now upon us ! 

Paol. Oh father, save me ! — save me, dearest 
father ! 

Olaf. Let go my cloak — they shall not hurt thee, 
child ! 
[to the Hunter] Thou cursed man ! — Dost see these 

savage beasts, 
And yet sit grinning there, as thou had'st done 
A piece of hunter- craft! 

Hunt. You carry arms — 

Cannot you fire upon them ? They will gorge 
Upon each other, and be pacified ! 

2 a 2 



356 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

Olaf. If they taste blood, they will be more 
ferocious — 
And thou know'st well we have not amunition 
For such a strife ! yet will I fire on them, 
Their savage barking will bring others down. 

[he fires, 

Paol. Oh horrid ! how they tear each other's flesh. 

Olaf. Now hurry forward, for our only hope 
Lies in out speeding them ! 

Paol. Let us go home ! 

Olaf. Again they are upon us — their gaunt jaws 
Dropping with blood, which they lick evermore! 
Now for another slaughter ! 

Hunt. 'Tis in vain, 

For right and left, yet other packs are coming ! 

Paol. Oh father, father, they will be upon us ! 
And I shall never see my mother more ! 

Hunt. Peace, brawling child ! 

Olaf. My poor dear boy, be still ! 

Paol. I will, I will, dear father ! 

Olaf. [to the Hunter'] Cursed murderer, 

His blood will be upon thy head ! 

Hunt. Indeed ! 

Who forced him from his mother 'gainst his will ? 

Olaf. Most strange, inhuman wretch ! 

Hunt. Nay, use thy gun, 

'T will do thee better service than thy tongue ! 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 357 

Olaf. [aside] Please heaven I live, I '11 pay thee 
for this hunt, 
Wages thou didst not ask ! 

[he puts his last charge into his piece. 
This is the last — 
When this is done, there is no other hope 
But in our flight ! [he fires. 

Now heaven must be our helper ! 
On, on, spare not the thong ! 

[the horse in dashing forward, breaks 
from the sledge ; the wolves fall upon 
him instantly. 
Olaf. Now must we fly ! 

Hunt. There is a hut among these icy deserts, 
Raised by some hunters. While they gorge them- 
selves, 
We may escape. 

PaoL Take, take my hand, dear father ! 

Olaf. How cold it is, poor boy ! 

[they turn among the ice-mountains, and 
soon are out of sight. 



358 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

SCENE V. 

A chaotic wilderness of icebergs. 

Enter the hunter, and olaf carrying faolo, who 
appears faint. 

Hunt. I hear their bark — we are not much a-head ! 
Olaf. How far is 't now unto the hunter's cabin ? 
Hunt. A half hour it would take us, could we run 
At our best speed — but cumbered with the child, 
What can we do ? 

Paol. Dear father, I will run — 

I will not cumber thee — I am strong now ! 

Olaf. My poor dear boy, thou canst not ! would 
to heaven 
Thou wert at home 1 

Paol. How kind thou art, dear father ! 

I will run on — I will not cumber thee ! 

Hunt. The wolves are here ! Hark, hark ! their 
barking comes 
Upon the passing wind ! 

Paol. Oh, they are here ! 

Olaf. How can we 'scape from them? I'll sell 
my life 
Dearly for this child's sake ! 

HunU Throw them the child ! 

And while they gorge on him, we can escape. 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 359 

Olaf. Thou devil of hell! 

PaoL Sweet father, do it not ! 

[the wolves surround them ; and the Hunter 
snatching up Paolo throws him among 
them, 
PaoL Oh father, father, save me ! 
Olaf, My boy ! my boy ! 

Hunt. It is too late — they tear him limb from 
limb ! 
Now for escape ! Run, run, and we shall reach 
A place of safety ! [he darts forward. 

Olaf God in heaven ! my boy — 

My gentle-hearted boy ! my murdered boy ! 

[he dashes among the wolves with his 
huntmg knife, and then springs forward 
after the Hunter. 



SCENE VI. 

Night — the interior of Olaf's house— Teresa alone — 
a bright fires burns on the hearth— refreshments are 
set out, and clothes hanging by the fire for Olaf and 
Paolo. 

Teresa. How late it is ! an hour beyond the mid- 
night ! 
And bitter cold it is ! The icy wind 
Even pierces through these walls ! Poor little Paolo, 



360 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

How weary and half- frozen he will be ; 
But he shall sit upon the bench beside me, 
And I will hold his hands, and lay his head 
Upon my knee ; it is his dear indulgence — 
Poor child, and he shall have it all to-night ! 

\_she puts fresh logs on the fire. 
And this is the third time I have renewed 
The wasting fire ! and when I piled it first, 
" My Paolo will be here," I said, " before 
These logs shall have burned through !" but, now 

alas, 
I know not what to say, saving the wonder 
That he comes not, and even this is grown 
A kind of vague despair, that seems to threaten 
He will not come at all ! Oh, if aught happed, 
Save good unto the child, like poor old Jacob, 
Then should I be bereaved ! 

Enter huld a, with a very dejected countenance ; she 
takes down Paolo's clothes, and folds them up, 

Ter. Nay, how is this ? 

Huld. He will not need them more ! 
Ter. Woman, what say'st thou ? 

Huld. Two hunters from the Icebergs are come 
down — 
Ere long thy husband comes. 

Ter. And not my box I 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 361 

Hulda. [laying the clothes together] He will not 
need these more ! 

Ter. Then he is dead ! 

Huld. Alas, dear lady, yes ! 

Ter. Peace, woman ! peace ! 

The earth were less forlorn without the sun, 
Than I without my boy ! He is not dead ! 

Huld. Would God he were not ! 

Ter. Do not say he is ! 

It is like blasphemy to say he 's dead. 
Heaven would not strip me so — O do not say it ! 
Where are these men ? I '11 forth, and meet my boy ! 

Huld. [stopping her] He is not on the road ! No, 
never more 
Will he repass this threshold ! 

Ter. 'T is a dream ! 

Huld. Dear lady, no ! — too plainly tell the hunters 
All that has happed ! 

Ter. And pr'ythee, what has happed ? 

Huld. A quarrel 'twixt the hunter and our master, 
Who now comes wounded home. 

Ter. And what of Paolo ? 

Huld. O heavy, heavy news ! — The child is 
missing ! 

Ter. Nay, then he is not dead! — Oh no, not dead ! 
I told thee Heaven would not so deal with me ! 
My precious boy will come back on the morrow,— 



362 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

Hunters are often lost for many days. 

These men shall seek for him among the wilds — 

I too, will go myself. Where are the men ? 

Enter the hunter, hastily. 

Hunt. Dear lady, woe is me ! 

Huld. Away, away ! 

Ter. Where is my boy ? 

Hunt. Oh wretched, wretched mother ! 

Ter. Torture me not, but tell me where he is ? 

Hunt. Lady, forgive me for the news I bring ! 

Ter. Then is he dead ? 

Hunt. Most terrible recital ! 

Lady, thy husband to preserve himself, 
Hath given thy little Paolo to the wolves ! 

Ter. [with a scream of horror] Oh no, no, no ! 

Hunt. He stopped their maws 
With thy poor Paolo's blood ! 

Ter. He did not so ! 

Hunt. Poor little one, how he did cry for thee ! 

Huld. Peace ! can'st not hold thy peace. Oh hear 
it not ! 
Lady, he is but missing ! 

Hunt. Poor, weak thing. 

How he did cling to me, and pray that I 
Would save him from his father ! 

[Teresa clasps her hands, and stands in 
speechless agony. 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 363 

I might have snatched a pretty lock of hair ; 
I wish I had — a pretty, curling lock ! 

Ter. [falling on her knees'] God, of thy mercy 
strengthen, strengthen me ! 
Enable me to bear what is thy will ! 

[she falls insensible to the floor. 
Huld. Wretch, why didst tell it her so cruelly— 
Besides, the Iceberg hunters say not so. 
Thou 'st killed her by thy tidings ! 

Hunt. Hark, he comes ! 

I hear her husband's voice ! 

Huld. She must not see him ! 

[she bears Teresa out. 
Hunt. I must off ! I '11 not again meet Olaf ; 
He 's not the facile fool that once he was : 
But there 's that damning deed laid to his charge, 
Will make Teresa curse both him and Heaven ! 

[he goes out. 



SCENE VII. 

The following day — the interior of the chapel — Teresa 
on her knees before the image of the Virgin. 

Mother of God, who borest 
That cruel pang which made thy spirit bleed ! 

Who knew'st severest anguish, sorrow sorest. 
Hear me in my great need ! 



364 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

My need is great, my woe is like thine own ! 
I am bereaved of mine only one ! 
Thou know'st I have no other ! 
Comfort me, oh my mother ! 

Kind Saviour, who didst shed 
Tears for thy Lazarus dead ; 
Who raised the widow's son from off his bier ; 
Who didst endure all woe 
That human hearts can know, 
Hear me, O hear ! 

Thou that are strong to comfort, look on me— 

I sit in darkness, and behold no light ! 
Over my heart the waves of agony 

Have gone, and left me faint ! Forbear to smite 
A bruised and broken reed ! Sustain, sustain ; 

Divinest Comforter, to thee I fly, 
Let me not fly in vain ! 

Support me with thy love, or else I die ! 

Father, who didst send down thy Well-Beloved, 

To suffer shame and death that I might live, 
Hear me, in this great sorrow, not unmoved, 

And if I sin, forgive ! 

Whate'er I had was thine ! 
A God of mercy thou hast ever been ; 

Assist me to resign ; 
And if I murmur, count it not for sin ! 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 365 

How rich I was, I dare not — dare not think ; 
How poor I am, thou knowest, who canst see 
Into my soul's unfathomed misery ; 

Forgive me if I shrink ! 
Forgive me that I shed these human tears ! 
That it so hard appears 

To yield my will to thine, forgive, forgive ! 
Father, it is a bitter cup to drink ! 

[she bows her face, and after a time of 
silence, rises. 

My soul is strengthened ! It shall bear 

My lot, whatever it may be ; 
And from the depths of my despair 

I will look up, and trust in Thee ! 

[she goes slowly out. 



SCENE VIII. 

Many weeks afterwards — a chamber of Olafs house 
— Olaf near death, lying upon his bed — Teresa sits 
beside him. 

Olaf. For years of tyranny I do beseech 
Thy pardon ! — For thy meekness and thy truth, 
The unrepining patience, and the beauty 
Of thy most holy life, my wife, I bless thee ! 



366 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

Ter. Thank God ! affliction has been merciful ! 
My boy, thy death has saved thy father's soul ! 

Olaf. And the great might of virtue in thyself; — 
Thy resignation, and thy pitying pardon — 
For these, receive my blessing ere I die— 
These, which have been the means of my salvation ! 

Ter. Bless Him, my husband, who is strong to 
save ! 

Olaf. I do, I do ! — and I rejoice in death ; 
Though, had my life been spared, I would have 

been 
Both son and husband to thee ! — Weep not thou — 
We shall all three ere long be reunited — 
I, the poor outcast else, be one with you ! 

Ter. Out of affliction has arisen joy, 
And out of black despair immortal hope ! 

Olaf. [after a silence of some time] Give me thy 
hand, sweet friend ; — I fain would sleep ; — 
And if I wake no more, I still would know 
Thou wilt be with me when I pass away ! 

Ter. May the kind, holy Mother bless thy sleep, — 
And bless thy waking, be 't of life or death ! 

\_Olaf remains perfectly quiet, and after 
some time a light slumber comes over 
Teresa, during which she hears dream- 
like voices singing. 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 367 

Oh human soul, 't is done, 
Past is thy trial ; past thy woe and pain ; 
Nor is there mortal stain 

Upon thy spirit-robes, redeemed one ! 
Spirit, that through a troubled sea 

Of sin and passion hast been wildly tost, 

And yet not lost, 
With songs of triumph do we welcome thee ! 

Redeemed spirit, come, 

Thine is a heavenly home ! 
Come, freed from human error ; 
From frailty, that did gird thee as the sea 

Engirds the earth ; from darkness, doubt and terror, 
Which hung around thy soul ere the light came ! 

From these we welcome thee ! 

Hark, heaven itself, rejoices, 

Hark, the celestial voices 
Shouting, like trumpet-peals, thy spirit-name ! — 

Oh gladly enter in, 

Thou conqueror of sin, 
The eternal city of the holy ones, 
Where, brighter far than stars, or moons, or suns, 
Thou shalt shine out before the Infinite ! — 

And see ! a heavenly child, 

With garments undefiled, 
Streaming upon the air like odorous light, 

Awaits to welcome thee ! 



368 THE SORROW OF TERESA. 

Oh father, clasp thy boy, 
Pour out thy soul in joy, 
In love, which human frailty held in thrall ; — 

Boy, clasp thy father now, 
Distrust and fear in heaven there cannot be, 

For love enfoldeth all ! 
Oh happy pair, too long divided, 

Pour out your souls in one strong sympathy ! 
Eternal Love your meeting steps hath guided, 
Ne'er to be parted through eternity ! 

Ter. \wahing~] I know that he is dead ; but this 
sweet omen, 
These holy voices pealing joy in heaven, 
Have taken the sting from death ! My dear, dear 

husband, 
I know that thou art blessed — art reunited 
Unto our boy ! 

\_She bends over the body for a few mo- 
ments ; then kneeling down and cover- 
ing her face, she remains in silent 
prayer. 



369 



Achzib's mission was ended ; and he returned to his 
fellows with exultation. " I have done that which 
I set out to do !" he exclaimed, " and ye shall declare 
me victor. I have proved the supremacy of evil; 
for of the seven whom I have tried, I have won four. 
Let me no longer be called Achzib the Liar, for I have 
proved that evil obtains a wider and more powerful 
agency than good. I have won four young men, in the 
strength of manhood, and in the full force of intellect : 
I have lost only a poor scholar, an old man, and a 
woman !" 

" Methinks," said the younger spirit, " thou hast 
been in some measure defeated ; inasmuch as these 
feeble ones were mightier than thou !" 

" 1 was a fool," returned Achzib, " to attempt any 
of the three : in them passion, and the aptitude to 
sin, were weak : one was enfeebled by sickness, one 
by old age, the third by long endurance of evil." 

" Thy triumph had been greater," interrupted the 
elder, " had thou won any of the three, whom, losing, 
thou pretendest to undervalue ; the four thou hast 
won were an easy conquest, for though boastful of 
virtue, they were weak in principle." 

2b 



370 

" It matters not," said Achzib : " any of these, but 
for my ministration, might have gone on through 
life without materially adding to crime ; without 
drawing others after them into sin; and without 
baptising human hearts in woe, as they have done ; 
and I tell ye, of the seven whom I have tried, four 
have become my victims/' 

" We deny it not/' said the two. 

" Then let me reign as a crowned one," exclaimed 
Achzib, " for I have proved that evil is mightier than 
good!" 

As Achzib thus spoke, an angel of truth stood 
before them. " Achzib," said he, " thou hast tried 
the sons of men, and hast tempted four to perdition ; 
thus has the All- wise permitted. I come not how- 
ever, to speak of their doom, but of good and evil 
as it regards human life. Thou hast introduced sin 
and sorrow among men ; but thou hast only feebly 
known the result of every downward step in human 
degradation and woe. Thou hast seen evil obtaining 
the mastery over good ; sin laying desolate the home 
of virtue and peace ; the good and the kind brought 
to the grave, or going through life mourning because 
of it ; and thou hast exclaimed, * surely, I am 
mightier than God ! ' Thou hast rivetted on the 
chains of oppression ; thou hast darkened the minds 
of the noble and pure, with thy lying deeds ; and 



371 

hast left generations yet unborn, to groan under thy 
sinful agency ; and men beholding these things, have 
exclaimed, with bleeding hearts, ' surely evil is 
mightier than good ! ' But a superior intelligence 
looks beyond the outward seeming, and perceives in 
the midst of evil, only more widely extended good. 

" O fools and blind, you cannot degrade God ! Your 
malign interference cannot reverse the decrees of his 
omnipotent wisdom. His goodness upholds and per- 
vades all things, both of the outward creation, and 
man's moral existence; and though evil is permitted, 
it neither mars nor deranges the great plan of universal 
Providence. Evil, like darkness, which makes visible 
the glory and immensity of God's works, unseen by 
day, though still present ; brings forth, in the moral 
world, the loveliness, the nobility, and the joy- 
difTusing nature of virtue. It is the depth of shadow, 
by which good is thrown into strong relief; it is the 
source whence many of the highest actions, many 
of the most triumphant passages of a conflicting life ; 
whence often, the most melting and beautiful trophies 
of the soul, winged in all its strength and affection, 
have been made to proceed. It is the trial of love, 
of faith, of patience ; it calls for forgiveness, and 
christian charity ; it teaches forbearance, meekness, 
and pity. It is the subjection to evil which is the 
ordeal of the human spirit, and it is the severe con- 



372 

trast of crime, which leads it to pay its devoutest 
homage to virtue. 

" Designer of evil, thou hast failed ! For every 
soul whom thou hast lured into sin, thou hast thrown 
others, through the anguish, or by the example of 
that sin, upon the healing mercy of Him who is able 
and willing to save ! " 

Achzib turned abashed from the speaker of Truth, 
and retired with his fellows into darkness ; and the 
angel lifting up his voice, poured out a hymn of 
praise. 

Thou, that createdst with a word each star ; 

Who, out of nothingness, brought systems forth, 
Yet didst exalt beyond creation, far, 

The human soul, immortal at its birth ; — 
Thou gavest light and darkness ; life and death ; 
Thou gavest good and ill, 
Twin powers, to be 
Companions of its mortal, devious path ; 
Yet left the human will, 
Unlimited and free ! 
We know how pain and woe, 

Sorrow and sin, make up the sum of life ! 
How good and evil are at ceaseless strife, 
And how the soul doth err in choice, we know ! 



373 

Yet not for this droop we, nor are afraid ; 

We know thy goodness, we behold thy m ° ' 
We know thy truth can never be gainsaid, 

And what thou dost is right ! 
We glorify thy name that thus it is ; — 
We glorify thy name for more than this ! 
We know that out of darkness shines thy light ; 

That out of evil cometh forth thy good ; 
That none shall circumvent the Infinite, 
Nor can Omnipotence be e'er subdued ! 
We know that doubt shall cease, and feeble terror ; 

That thou wilt wipe all tears from every eye ! 
That thine Almighty Truth shall vanquish error, 
And death shall die ! 

We know that this shall be, 
Therefore we trust in Thee, 
And pour in balm to human hearts that bleed ; 
And bind the broken and the bruised reed ; 
And say, rejoice, rejoice ! 

For truth is strong ! 
Exalt ye every voice 

In one triumphant song — 
For Truth is God — and he shall make you free ! 
Evil is but of Time ; — Good of Eternity ! 



LONDON : 

PRINTED BY MANNING AND CO. 

LONDON HOL'SE-YARD. 






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